THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


"xQ^p^^- 


'>t-v.<^^^l^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/abbessofvlayeOOweym 


THE    ABBESS   OF   VLAYE 


By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF.  A  Romance.  With 
Frontispiece  and  Vignette.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  STORY  O.^  FRANCIS  CLUDDE.  A  Romance.  With 
four  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  $1.25. 

A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE.  Being  the  Memoirs  of 
Gaston  de  Bonne,  Sieur  de  Marsac.  With  Frontispiece 
and  Vignette.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE.  With  twelve  full-page  Illus- 
trations.    Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

MY  LADY  ROTHA.  A  Romance  of  the  Thirty  Years' 
War.     With  eight  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

FROM  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MINISTER  OF  FRANCE. 
With  thirty-six   Illustrations.     Crown   8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  MAN  IN  BLACK.  With  twelve  Illustrations.  Crown 
8vo,  $1.00. 

SHREWSBURY.  A  Romance.  With  twenty-four  Illus- 
trations.    Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

THE  RED  COCKADE.  A  Novel.  With  forty-eight  Illus- 
trations  by  R.  Catpn  Woodville.     Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

THE  CASTLE  INN.  A  Novel.  With  six  full-page  Illus- 
trations by  Walter  Appleton  Clark.     Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

SOPHIA.  A  Romance.  With  twelve  full-page  Illustra- 
tions.    Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

COUNT  HANNIBAL.  A  Romance  of  the  Court  of  France. 
With  Frontispiece.     Crown  8vo    $1.50. 

IN  KINGS'  BYWAYS.  With  Frontispiece.  Crown  8vo, 
$1.50. 


New  York:  Longmans,  Green,  and  Co. 


"HI-.    HAD    DISMOUNTED,   AND    HAD    HIS    HAl     IN    HIS    HAND" 


Page  lis] 


THE  ABBESS 
OF  VLAYE 


BY 

STANLEY   J.   WEYMAN 

Author  of  Under  the  Red  Robe,"  "A   Gentleman  o/  France, 

"  My  Lady  Rotha,"  "  The  Red  Cockade,'^  "  Count 

Hannibal,"  "  The  Castle  Inn,"  etc. 


LONGMANS,     GREEN,     AND     CO. 

91  AND  93  FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 

LONDON  AND   BOMBAY 

1904 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN. 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
STANLEY  J.   WEYMAN. 


All  rights  reserved. 


ROBERT  DRUUHOND,  PRINTER,  NEW  YORK. 


/fkp^ 


TO 

HUGH  STOWELL  SCOTT, 

IN  REMEMBRANCE   OF  LONG   SUMMER  DATS   SPENT  WITH  HIM 

AMID  THE  SCENES  WHICH  SUGGESTED  IT, 

THIS   STORY  IS 

AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED  BY  HIS  FEIBinD. 


CONTENTS. 


LA.P.  PAOB 

INTRODUCTION— A  King  in  Council 1 

I.  Villeneuve-l' Abbesse 18 

II.  The  Tower  Chamber 37 

III.  Still  Waters  Troubled 53 

IV.  The  Dilemma 71 

V.  The  Captain  of  Vlaye 88 

VI.  In  the  Hat-field 102 

VII.  A  Soldiers'  Frolic 124 

VIII.  Father  Angel 141 

IX.  Speedy  Justice 156 

X.  Midnight  Alarms 171 

XI.  The  Chapel  by  the  Ford 191 

XII.  The  Peasants'  Camp 211 

XIII.  Hostages 227 

XIV.  Saint  and  Sinner 242 

XV.  Fears 255 

XVI.  To  Do  or  Not  to  Do? 269 

vii 


via  CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XVII.  The  Heart  op  Cain 285 

XVIII.  Two  IN  THE  Mill 301 

XIX.  The  Captain  op  Vlaye's  Condition 317 

XX.  The  Abbess  Moves 331 

XXI.  The  Castle  op  Vlaye 345 

XXII.  A  Night  by  the  River 362 

XXIII.  The  Bride's  Dot 377 

XXIV.  FoRS  l' Amour 394 

XXV.  His  Last  Ride 410 


THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 


INTRODUCTION. 


A   KING  IN   COUNCIL. 


Monsieur  des  Ageaux  was  a  man  of  whom  his  best 
friends  could  not  say  that  he  shone,  or  tried  to  shine,  in 
the  pursuit  of  the  fair  sex.  He  was  of  an  age,  something 
over  thirty,  when  experience  renders  more  formidable 
the  remaining  charms  of  youth;  and  former  conquests 
whet  the  sword  for  new  emprises.  And  the  time  in 
which  he  lived  and  governed  the  province  of  Perigord 
for  the  King  was  a  time  in  which  the  favour  of  ladies, 
and  the  good  things  to  be  gained  thereby,  stood  for 
much,  and  morality  for  little.  So  that  for  the  ambitious 
the  path  of  dalliance  presented  almost  as  many  chances 
of  advancement  as  the  more  strenuous  road  of  war. 

Yet  des  Ageaux,  though  he  was  an  ambitious  man 
and  one  whose  appetite  success — and  in  his  degree  he 
had  been  very  successful — ^had  but  sharpened,  showed 
no  inclination  to  take  that  path,  or  to  rise  by  trifling. 
Nay,  he  turned  from  it ;  he  shunned  if  he  did  not  dislike 
the  other  sex.  Whether  he  doubted  his  powers — he  was 
a  taciturn,  grave  man — or  lie  had  energy  only  for  the 


2  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

one  pursuit  he  loved,  the  government  of  men,  the  thing 
was  certain.  Yet  he  was  not  unpopular  even  at  Court, 
the  lax  Court  of  Henry  the  Fourth.  But  he  was  known 
for  a  thoughtful,  dry  man,  older  than  his  years  and  no 
favourite  with  great  ladies;  of  whom  some  dubbed  him 
shy,  and  some  a  clown,  and  all — a  piece  of  furniture. 

None  the  less,  where  men  were  concerned,  he  passed 
for  a  man  more  useful  than  most;  or,  for  certain,  seeing 
that  he  boasted  no  great  claims,  and  belonged  to  no 
great  family,  he  had  not  been  Governor  of  a  province. 
Governors  of  provinces  in  those  days  were  of  the  high- 
est; cousins  of  the  King,  when  these  could  be  trusted, 
which  was  rare;  peers  and  Marshals  of  France,  great 
Dukes  with  vast  hereditary  possessions,  old  landed 
Vicomtes,  and  the  like.  Only  at  the  tail  of  the  list 
came  some  half-dozen  men  whom  discretion  and  service, 
or  the  playfulness  of  fortune  had — mirahile  dictu — raised 
to  office.  And  at  the  tail  of  all  came  des  Ageaux; 
for  Perigord,  his  province,  land  of  the  pie  and  the  goose 
liver,  was  part  of  the  King's  demesne,  the  King  was  his 
own  Governor  in  it,  and  des  Ageaux  bore  only  the  title 
of  "Lieutenant  for  the  King  in  the  country  of  Perigord." 

Yet  was  it  a  wonderful  post  for  such  a  man,  and  many 
a  personage,  many  a  lord  well  seen  at  Court,  coveted  it. 
All  the  same  the  burden  was  heavy ;  a  thing  not  to  be  dis- 
missed in  a  moment.  The  Kjng  found  him  no  money, 
or  little;  no  men,  or  few.  Where  greater  Governors 
used  their  own  resources  he  had  to  use — economy. 
And  to  make  matters  worse  the  man  was  just;  it 
was  part  of  his  nature,  it  was  part  of  his  passion,  to 
be  just.  So  where  they  taxed  not  legally  only,  but 
illegally,  he  scrupled,  he  held  his  hand.  And,  therefore, 
though  his  dignity  was  almost  as  high  as  office  could 


A  KING  IN  COUNCIL.  3 

make  it,  and  his  power  in  his  own  country  not  small,  no 
man  who  ever  came  to  Court  went  with  less  splendour 
in  the  streets  of  Paris,  or  with  a  smaller  following. 
Doubtless,  as  a  result  of  this,  a  few  despised  him;  a  few 
even,  making  common  cause  with  the  Court  ladies,  and 
being  themselves  semi-royal,  and  above  retort,  flouted 
him  as  a  thing  negligible. 

But,  on  the  whole,  he  passed,  though  dry  and  grave, 
for  a  man  to  be  envied,  the  ladies  notwithstanding. 
And  he  held  his  own  tolerably,  and  his  post  handsomely 
until  a  certain  day  in  the  summer  of  1595,  when  word 
came  to  the  young  Governor  to  cross  half  France  to  meet 
the  King  at  Lyons;  where,  in  the  early  part  of  that  year, 
Henry  the  Fourth  lay,  and  was  ill-content  with  a  world 
which,  on  the  surface,  seemed  to  be  treating  him  well. 

But  on  the  surface  only.  The  long  wars  of  religion, 
midway  in  which  the  Massacre  of  Bartholomew  stands 
up,  like  some  drear  gibbet  landmark  in  a  waste,  were, 
indeed,  virtually  over.  Not  only  had  Henry  come  to 
the  throne,  but  Paris,  his  capital,  was  his  at  last;  had 
he  not  bought  it  eighteen  months  before  by  that  mass, 
that  abjuration  of  Protestant  errors,  of  which  the  world 
has  heard  so  much?  And  not  Paris  only.  Orleans 
and  Bourges,  and  this  good  city  of  Lyons,  and  Rouen,  all 
were  his  now,  and  in  their  Notre-Dames  or  St.-Etiennes 
had  sung  their  Te  Deums,  and  more  or  less  heartily 
cried  "God  save  the  King!"  At  last,  after  six  years 
of  fighting,  of  wild  horse  forays,  that  flamed  across  the 
Northern  corn-lands,  after  a  thousand  sleepless  nights 
and  as  many  days  of  buying  and  bartering — at  last  the 
lover  of  Gabrielle,  who  was  also  the  most  patient  and 
astute  of  men,  was  King  of  France  and  of  Navarre,  lord 
of  all  this  pleasant  realm. 


4  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

Or,  not  lord;  only  over-lord,  as  six  times  a  day  they 
made  him  know.  Nor  even  that,  of  all.  For  in  Brittany 
a  great  noble  still  went  his  own  way.  And  in  Provence 
a  great  city  refused  to  surrender.  And  north-eastwards 
Spain  still  clung  to  his  border.  Nevertheless  it  was  none 
of  these  things  filled  Henry,  the  King,  with  discontent. 
It  was  at  none  of  these  things  that  he  swore  in  his  beard 
as  he  sulked  at  the  end  of  the  long  Council  Table  this 
June  morning;  while  des  Ageaux,  from  his  seat  near 
the  bottom  of  the  board,  watched  his  face. 

In  truth  Henry  was  discovering,  that,  having  bought, 
he  must  pay ;  that  so  great  was  the  mortgage  he  had  put 
on  his  kingdom,  the  profits  belonged  to  others.  Over- 
lord he  was — lord,  no;  except  perhaps  in  Lyons  where 
he  lay,  and  where  for  that  reason  the  Governor  had  to 
mind  his  manners.  But  in  smiling  Provence  to  south  of 
him?  Not  a  whit.  The  Duke  of  Epernon  ruled  the  land 
of  Roses,  and  would  rule  until  the  young  Duke  of  Guise, 
to  whom  His  Majesty  had  given  commission,  put  him 
out;  and  then  Guise  would  rule.  In  Dauphiny  the  same. 
In  Languedoc,  the  great  middle  province  of  the  south, 
Montmorency,  son  to  the  old  Constable,  was  King  in  fact ; 
in  Guienne  old  Marshal  Matignon.  In  Angoumois 
— ^here  Epernon  again;  so  firmly  fixed  that  he  deigned 
only  to  rule  by  quarterly  letters  from  his  distant  home. 
True  in  Poitou  was  an  obedient  Governor,  but  the  house 
of  Tremouille  from  their  red  castle  of  Thouars  out- 
weighed his  governorship.  And  in  rocky  Limousin  the 
Governor  could  keep  neither  theKing's  peace  nor  his  own. 

So  it  was  everywhere  through  the  wide  provinces  of 
France;  and  Henry,  who  loved  his  people,  knew  it,  and 
sulkily  fingered  the  papers  that  told  of  it.  Not  that  he 
had  need  of  the  papers.     He  knew  before  he  cast  eye 


A  KING  IN  COUNCIL.  5 

on  them  in  what  a  welter  of  lawlessness  and  disorder, 
of  private  feud  and  public  poverty,  thirty  years  of  civil 
war  had  left  his  kingdom.  One  province  was  in  arms, 
torn  asunder  by  a  feud  between  two  great  houses.  An- 
other laboured  in  the  throes  of  a  peasant  rising,  its  hills 
alight  night  after  night  with  the  flames  of  burning  farm- 
steads. A  third  was  helpless  in  the  grip  of  a  gang  of 
brigands,  who  held  the  roads.  A  fourth  was  beset  by 
disbanded  soldiers.  The  long  wars  of  religion  had  dis- 
solved all  ties.  Everywhere  monks  who  had  left  their 
abbeys  and  nuns  who  had  left  their  convents  swarmed 
on  the  roads,  with  sturdy  beggars,  homeless  peasants, 
broken  gentry.  Everywhere,  beyond  the  walls  of  the 
great  cities,  the  law  was  paralysed,  the  great  committed 
outrage,  the  poor  suffered  wrong,  the  excesses  of  war 
enured,  and,  in  this  time  of  fancied  peace,  took  grimmer 
shape. 

He  whom  God  had  set  over  France,  to  rule  it,  knew 
these  things  and  sat  hopeless,  brooding  over  the  papers ; 
hampered  on  the  one  side  by  lack  of  money,  on  the 
other  by  the  grants  of  power  that  in  evil  days  had  bought 
a  nominal  allegiance.  He  began  to  see  that  he  had  won 
only  the  first  bout  of  a  match  which  must  last  him  his 
life.  Nor  would  it  have  consoled  him  much  to  know 
that  in  the  college  of  Navarre  that  day  played  a  little  lad, 
just  ten  years  old,  whose  frail  white  hand  would  one  day 
right  these  things  with  a  vengeance. 

His  people  cried  to  him,  and  he  longed  to  help  them 
and  could  not.  From  a  thousand  market-places,  splayed 
wooden  shelters,  covering  each  its  quarter-acre  of  ground, 
their  cry  came  up  to  him:  '' Give  us  peace,  give  us  law!" 
and  he  could  not.  No  wonder  that  he  brooded  over  the 
papers,  while  the  clerks  looked  askance  at  him,  and  the 


6  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

great  lords  who  had  won  what  he  had  lost  whispered  or 
played  tric-trac  at  the  board.  Those  who  sat  lower,  and 
among  these  M.  des  Ageaux,  were  less  at  their  ease. 
They  wondered  where  the  storm  would  break,  and  feared 
each  for  his  own  head. 

Presently  M.  de  Joyeuse,  one  of  the  great  nobles, 
precipitated  the  outburst.  "You  have  heard,"  said  he, 
twiddling  a  pen  between  his  delicate  fingers,  "what 
they  call  these  peasants  who  are  ravaging  Poitou,  sire?" 

Before  the  King  could  answer  the  Governor  of  Poitou 
protested  from  his  place  lower  down  the  table.  ''They 
are  none  of  mine, "  he  said.  "  It  is  in  the  Limousin  next 
door  to  me  that  they  are  at  work.  I  wash  my  hands  of 
them!" 

"They  are  as  bad  on  your  side  as  on  mine!"  he  of 
the  barren  Limousin  retorted. 

"They  started  with  you!"  Poitou  rejoined.  "Who 
kindles  a  fire  should  put  it  out." 

The  Iving  raised  his  hand  for  silence.  "No  matter 
who  is  responsible,  the  fact  remains !"  he  said. 

"But  you  have  not  heard  the  jest,  sire, "  Joyeuse  struck 
in.  His  thin  handsome  face,  pale  with  excess,  belied 
eyes  thoughtful  and  dreamy,  eyes  that  saw  visions. 
He  had  been  a  King's  favourite,  he  had  spent  years  in 
a  convent,  he  had  come  forth  again,  now  he  was  head 
of  the  great  Joyeuse  house,  lord  of  a  third  of  Languedoc. 
By  turns  "Father  Angel" — for  he  had  been  a  noted 
preacher — and  Monseigneur,  there  were  those  who  pre- 
dicted that  he  would  some  day  return  to  the  cloister 
and  die  in  his  hood.  "They  call  them  the  Tards- 
Avisfe,"  he  continued,  "because  they  were  foolish 
enough  to  rise  when  the  war  was  over." 

"God  pity  them!"  the  King  said, 


A  KING  IN  COUNCIL.  7 

"Morbleu!  Your  Majesty  is  pitiful  of  a  sudden!" 
The  speaker  was  the  Constable  de  Montmorency.  He 
was  a  stout,  gruff,  choleric  man,  born,  as  the  Montmo- 
rencys  were,  a  generation  too  late. 

"I  pity  them!"  the  King  answered  a  trifle  sharply. 
"But  you" — he  spoke  to  the  table — "neither  pity  them 
nor  put  them  down." 

"You  are  speaking,  sire,"  one  asked,  "of  the  Crocans?" 
It  was  so ;  from  the  name  of  a  village  in  their  midst,  they 
called  these  revolted  peasants  of  the  Limousin  of  whom 
more  will  be  said. 

"Yes." 

"They  are  not  in  my  government, "  the  speaker  replied. 

"Nor  in  mine!" 

"Nor  mine!"  And  so  all,  except  the  Governor  of  the 
Limousin  and  the  Governor  of  Poitou,  who  sat  sulkily 
silent. 

Another  of  the  great  ones,  Marshal  Matignon,  nodded 
approval.  "Let  every  man  shoe  his  own  ass,"  he  said, 
pursing  up  his  lips.  He  was  a  white-haired,  red-faced, 
apoplectic  man  of  sixty,  who  thought  that  in  persuading 
the  Estates  of  Bordeaux  to  acknowledge  Henry  he  had 
earned  the  right  to  go  his  own  way.  "Otherwise  we  shall 
jostle  one  another,"  he  continued,  "and  be  at  blows  be- 
fore we  know  it,  sire !  They  are  in  the  Limousin;  let  the 
Governor  put  them  down.  It  is  his  business  and  no 
other's." 

"Except  mine,"  the  King  replied,  with  a  frown  of  dis- 
pleasure.    "And  if  he  cannot,  what  then?" 

"Let  him  make  way,  sire,  for  one  who  can,"  the  Con- 
stable answered  readily.  "Your  Majesty  will  not  have 
far  to  look  for  him,"  he  continued  in  a  playful  tone, 
*'My  nephew,  for  instance,  would  like  a  government." 


8  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"A  truce  to  jesting,"  Henry  said.  "The  trouble  be- 
gan, it  is  true,  in  the  Limousin,  but  it  has  spread  into  Poi- 
tou  and  into  the  Angoumois" — he  looked  at  Epernon's 
agent,  for  the  Duke  of  Epernon  was  so  great  a  man  he  had 
not  come  himself.  "Gentlemen,"  the  King  continued, 
sitting  back  in  his  great  chair,  "can  you  not  come  to 
some  agreement?  Can  you  not  mass  what  force  you 
have,  and  deal  with  them  shortly  but  mercifully?  The 
longer  the  fire  burns,  the  more  trouble  will  it  be  to  ex- 
tinguish it,  and  the  greater  the  suffering." 

"Why  not  let  it  burn  out,  sire?"  Epernon's  agent 
muttered  with  thinly  veiled  impudence.  "It  will  then 
burn  the  more  rubbish,  with  your  Majesty's  leave!" 

But,  the  words  said,  he  quailed.  For,  under  his 
aquiline  nose,  the  King's  mustaches  curled  with  rage. 
There  were  some  with  whom  he  must  bear,  lords  who 
had  brought  him  rich  cities,  wide  provinces;  and  others 
whose  deeds  won  them  licence.  But  this  man?  "There 
spoke  the  hireling!"  he  cried.  And  the  stroke  went 
home,  for  the  man  was  the  only  one  at  the  table  who  had 
no  government  of  his  own.  "I  will  spare  your  attend- 
ance, sir,"  the  King  continued,  with  a  scornful  gesture. 
"M.  de  Guise  will  answer  such  questions  as  arise  on  your 
master's  late  government — of  Provence.  And  for  his 
other  government " 

"I  represent  him  there  also,"  the  man  muttered 
sulkily. 

"Then  you  can  represent  his  absence,"  Henry  retorted 
with  quick  wit,  "since  he  is  never  there!  I  need  you 
not.  Go,  sir,  and  see  that  within  three  hours  you  are 
without  the  walls  of  Lyons!" 

Tlie  man  rose,  divided  between  fear  of  the  King  and 
fear  of  the  master  to  whom  he  must  return.    He  paused 


A  KING  IN  COUNCIL.  9 

an  instant,  then  went  down  the  room  slowly,  and  went 
out. 

"  Now,  gentlemen, "  Henry  contmued,  with  hard  looks, 
"understand.  You  may  shoe  each  his  own  ass,  but  you 
must  shoe  mine  also.  There  must  be  an  end  put  to  this 
peasant  rising.     Who  will  undertake  it?" 

"The  man  who  should  undertake  it,"  Matignon 
answered,  "for  the  ass  is  of  his  providing,  is  the  gentle- 
man who  has  gone  out. " 

"He  is  naught!" 

"He  is  for  much  in  this." 

"How?  Sometimes,"  the  King  continued  irritably, 
"I  think  the  men  are  shod,  and  the  asses  come  to  my 
Council  Table!" 

This  was  a  stroke  of  wit  on  a  level  with  the  Constable's 
discernment;  he  laughed  loudly.  "Nevertheless,"  he 
said,  "Matignon's  right,  sire.  That  man's  master  is  for 
a  good  deal  in  this.  If  he  had  kept  order  his  neighbour's 
house  would  not  be  on  fire." 

For  the  first  time  M.  des  Ageaux  ventured  a  word 
from  the  lower  end  of  the  table.  "Vlaye!"  he 
muttered. 

The  Constable  leaned  forward  to  see  who  spoke.  "Ay, 
you've  hit  on  it,  my  lad,  whoever  you  are.  Vlaye  it  is!" 
And  he  looked  at  Matignon,  who  nodded  his  adhesion. 

Henry  frowned.  "I  am  coming  to  the  matter  of 
Vlaye,"  he  said. 

"It  is  all  one,  sire,"  Matignon  replied,  his  eyes  haK 
shut.     He  wheezed  a  little  in  his  speech. 

"How?" 

The  Constable  explained.  He  leant  forward  and 
prodded  the  table  with  a  short,  stout  finger — not  over- 
clean  according  to  the  ideas  of  a  later  time.     "Angou- 


10  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

mois  is  there,"  he  said.  ''See,  your  Majesty.  And 
Poitou  is  here" — with  a  second  prod  an  inch  from  the 
first.  "And  the  Limousin  is  here!  And  Perigord  is 
there!  And  see,  your  Majesty,  where  their  skirts  all 
meet  in  this  corner — or  as  good  as  meet — is  Vlaye! 
Name  of  God,  a  strong  place,  that!'"'  He  turned  for 
assent  to  old  Matignon,  who  nodded  silently. 

"And  you  mean  to  say  that  Vlaye " 

"Has  been  over  heavy  handed,  your  Majesty.  And 
the  clowns,  beginning  to  find  the  thing  beyond  a  joke, 
began  by  hanging  three  poor  devils  of  toll  gatherers,  and 
the  thing  started.  And  what  is  on  everybody's  frontier 
is  nobody's  business." 

"Except  mine,"  the  King  muttered  drily.  "And 
Vlaye  is  Epernon's  man?" 

' '  That  is  it,  sire, ' '  the  Constable  answered.  "  Epernon 
put  him  in  the  castle  six  years  back  for  standing  by  him 
when  the  Angouleme  people  rose  on  him.  But  the  man 
is  no  Vlaye,  you  understand.  M.  de  Vlaye  was  in  that 
business  and  died  of  his  wounds.  He  had  no  near  heirs, 
and  the  man  whom  Epernon  put  in  took  the  lordship  as 
well  as  the  castle,  the  name  and  all  belonging  to  it. 
They  call  him  the  Captain  of  Vlaye  in  those  parts." 

The  King  looked  his  astonishment. 

"Oh,  I  could  give  you  twenty  cases!"  the  Constable 
continued,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "What  do  you 
expect,  sire,  in  such  times  as  these?" 

"Ventre  St.  Gris!"  Henry  swore.  "And  not  content 
with  what  he  has  got,  he  robs  the  poor?" 

"And  the  rich,  too,"  Joyeuse  murmured  with  a  grin, 
"when  he  gets  them  into  his  net!" 

Henry  looked  sternly  from  one  to  another.  "But 
what  do  you  while  this  goes  on ? "  he  said .     "For  shame ! 


A  KING  IN  COUNCIL.  11 

You,  Constable?     You,  Matignon?"    He  turned  from 
one  to  the  other. 

Matignon  laughed  wheezily.  "Make  me  Governor  in 
Epernon's  place,  sire,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  account  for 
him.     But  double  work  and  single  pay?    No,  no!" 

The  Constable  laughed  as  at  a  great  joke.  "I  say 
the  same,  sire,"  he  said.  "While  Epernon  has  the 
Angoumois  it  is  his  affair. " 

The  King  looked  stormily  at  the  Governor  of  Poitou. 
But  Poitou  shook  his  head.  "It  is  not  in  my  govern- 
ment," he  said  moodily.  "I  cannot  afford,  sire,  to  get 
a  hornets'  nest  about  my  ears  for  nothing. " 

He  of  the  Limousin  fidgeted.  "I  say  the  same,  sire," 
he  muttered.  "Vlaye  has  three  hundred  spears.  It 
would  need  an  army  to  reduce  him.  And  I  have  neither 
men  nor  money  for  the  task." 

"There  you  have,  sire,"  the  delicate-faced  Joyeuse 
cried  gaily,  "three  hundred  and  one  good  reasons  why 
the  Limousin  leaves  the  man  alone.  For  the  matter  of 
that" — he  tried  to  spin  his  pen  like  a  top — "there  is  a 
government  as  deeply  concerned  in  this  as  any  that  has 
been  named." 

"Which?"  Henry  asked.  He  was  losing  patience. 
That  which  was  so  much  to  him  was  nothing  to  these.    : 

"P^rigord,"  Joyeuse  answered  with  a  bow.  And  at 
that  several  laughed  softly — ^but  not  the  King.  He  was 
himself,  as  has  been  said.  Governor  of  Perigord. 

Here  at  last,  however,  was  one  on  whom  he  could 
vent  his  displeasure;  and  he  would  vent  it!  "Stand 
up,  des  Ageaux!"  he  cried  harshly.  And  he  scowled 
as  des  Ageaux,  who  was  somewhat  like  him  in  feature, 
rose  from  his  seat.  "What  have  you  to  say,  man?" 
Henry  cried.     "For  yourself  and  for  me!    Speak,  sir!" 


12  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

But  before  des  Ageaux  could  answer,  the  King  broke 
out  anew — with  abuse,  with  reproaches,  giving  his  pas- 
sion rein ;  while  the  great  Governors  listened  and  licked 
their  lips,  or  winked  at  one  another,  when  the  King  hit 
them  a  side  blow.  Presently,  when  des  Ageaux  would 
have  defended  himself,  alleging  that  he  was  no  deeper 
in  fault  than  others, 

''Ventre  St.  Gris!  No  words,  sir!''  Henry  retorted. 
"I  find  kings  enough  here,  I  want  not  you  in  the  number! 
I  made  not  you  that  I  might  have  your  nobility  cast 
in  my  teeth!  You  are  not  of  the  blood  royal,  nor 
even, ' '  leaning  a  little  on  the  word,  "  Joyeuse  or  Epernon ! 
Man,  I  made  you!  And  not  for  show,  I  have  enough 
of  that— but  to  be  of  use  and  service,  for  common  needs 
and  not  for  parade— like  the  gentleman,  "bitterly,  "who 
deigns  to  represent  me  in  the  Limousin,  or  he  who  is 
so  good  as  to  sign  papers  for  me  in  Poitou !  Man  alive,  it 
might  be  thought  you  were  peer  and  marshal,  from 
your  way  of  idling  here,  while  robbers  ride  your  marches, 
and  my  peasants  are  driven  to  revolt.  Go  to,  do  you 
think  you  are  one  of  these?"  He  indicated  by  a  gesture 
the  great  lords  who  sat  nearest  him.  ' '  Do  you  think  that 
because  I  made  you,  I  cannot  unmake  you?" 

The  man  on  whom  the  storm  had  fallen  bore  it  not 
ignobly.  It  has  been  said  that  he  featured  Henry  him- 
self, being  prominent  of  nose,  with  a  grave  face,  a  brown 
beard,  close-cropped,  and  a  forehead  high  and  severe. 
Only  in  his  eyes  shone,  and  that  rarely,  a  gleam  of 
humour.  Now  the  sweat  stood  on  his  brow  as  he 
listened — they  were  cruel  blows,  the  position  a  cruel  one. 
Nevertheless,  when  the  King  paused,  and  he  had  room 
to  answer,  his  voice  was  steady. 

" I  claim,  sire, ' '  he  said,  "no  immunity.     Neither  that, 


A  KING  IN  COUNCIL.  13 

nor  aught  but  the  right  of  a  soldier,  who  has  fought  for 
France " 

"And  gallantly!"  struck  in  one,  who  had  not  yet 
spoken — Lesdiguieres,  the  Huguenot,  the  famous  Gov- 
ernor of  Dauphiny.  He  turned  to  the  King.  "I  vouch 
for  it,  sire,"  he  continued.  "And  M.  de  Joyeuse,  who 
has  the  better  right,  will  vouch  for  it, -too. " 

But  Joyeuse,  who  was  sulkily  prodding  the  table  with 
his  spoiled  pen,  neither  lifted  his  eyes  nor  gave  heed. 
He  was  bitterly  offended  by  the  junction  of  his  name 
with  that  of  Epernon,  who,  great  and  powerful  as  he  was, 
had  had  a  notary  for  his  father.     He  was  silent. 

Des  Ageaux,  who  had  looked  at  him  as  hoping  some- 
thing, lifted  his  eyes.  "Your  Majesty  will  do  me  the 
justice  to  remember,"  he  said,  "that  I  had  your  order 
to  have  a  special  care  of  my  province ;  and  to  mass  what 
force  I  could  m  Perigueux.     Few  men  as  I  have " 

"You  build  them  up  within  walls!"  Henry  retorted. 

"But  if  I  lost  Perigueux " 

The  Eling  snarled. 

"Or  aught  happened  there?" 

"You  would  lose  your  head!"  Henry  returned.  He 
was  thoroughly  out  of  temper.  "By  the  Lord,"  he 
continued,  "have  I  no  man  in  my  service?  Must  I 
take  this  fellow  of  Vlaye  into  hire  because  I  have  no 
honest  man  with  the  courage  of  a  mouse!  You  call 
yourseK  Lieutenant  of  Perigord,  and  this  happens  on  your 
border.     I  have  a  mind  to  break  you,  sir!" 

Henry  seldom  let  his  anger  have  vent;  and  the  man 
who  stood  before  him  knew  his  danger.  From  a  poor 
gentleman  of  Brittany  with  something  of  pedigree  but 
little  of  estate,  he  had  risen  to  this  post  which  eight  out 
of  ten  at  that  table  grudged  him.    He  saw  it  slipping 


14  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

away ;  nay,  falling  from  him — falling !  A  moment  might 
decide  his  fate. 

In  the  pinch  his  eyes  sought  Joyeuse,  and  the  appeal 
in  them  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  But  the  elegant  sulked, 
and  would  not  see.  It  was  clear  that,  for  him,  des  Ageaux 
might  sink.  For  himself,  the  Lieutenant  doubted  if  words 
would  help  him,  and  they  might  aggravate  the  King's 
temper.     He  was  bravely  silent. 

It  was  Lesdiguieres,  the  Huguenot,  who  came  to  the 
rescue.  "Your  Majesty  is  a  little  hard  on  M.  des 
Ageaux,"  he  said.  And  the  King's  lieutenant  in  P^ri- 
gord  knew  why  men  loved  the  King's  Governor  in 
Dauphiny. 

"In  his  place,"  Henry  answered  wrathfully,  "I  would 
pull  down  Vlaye  if  I  did  it  with  my  teeth.  It  is  easy 
for  you,  my  friend,  to  talk,"  he  continued,  addressing 
the  Huguenot  leader.  "They  are  not  your  peasants 
whom  this  rogue  of  a  Vlaye  presses,  nor  your  hamlets 
he  burns.  I  have  it  all  here — ^here!"  he  repeated,  his 
eyes  kindling  as  he  slapped  with  his  open  hand  one  of 
the  papers  before  him,  "and  the  things  he  has  done  make 
my  blood  boil!  I  swear  if  I  were  not  King  I  would  turn 
Crocan  myself!  But  these  things  are  little  thought  of 
by  others.  M.  d'Epemon  supports  this  man,  and" — 
with  a  sudden  glance  at  Matignon — "the  Governor  of 
Guienne  makes  use  of  his  horses  when  he  travels  to  see 
the  King." 

Matignon  laughed  something  shamefacedly.  "Well, 
sire,  the  horses  have  done  no  harm,"  he  said.  "Nor  he 
in  my  government.  He  knows  better.  And  things  are 
upside  down  thereabouts." 

"It  is  for  us  to  right  them!"  Henry  retorted.  And 
then  to  des  Ageaux,  but  with  less  temper.     "Now,  sir. 


A  KING  IN  COUNCIL.  15 

I  lay  my  order  on  you!  I  give  you  six  weeks  to  rid 
me  of  this  man,  Vlaye.  Fail,  and  I  put  in  your  place 
a  man  who  will  do  it.  You  understand.  Lieutenant? 
Then  do  not  faU.  By  the  Lord,  I  know  not  where  I 
shall  be  bearded  next!" 

He  turned  then,  but  still  muttering  angrily,  to  other 
business.  Matignon  and  the  Constable  were  not  con- 
cerned in  this;  and  as  soon  as  the  King's  shoulder  was 
towards  them  they  winked  at  one  another.  "Your 
nephew  will  not  have  long  to  wait,"  Matignon  whispered, 
"if  a  lieutenancy  wiU  suit  him. " 

"'Twould  be  a  fair  start,"  the  Constable  answered. 
"But  a  watched  pot — you  know  the  saying." 

"This  pot  will  boil  at  the  end  of  six  weeks,"  Matignon 
rejoined  with  a  fat  chuckle.  "Chut,  man,  with  his  wage 
a  year  in  arrear,  and  naught  behind  his  wage,  where  is 
he  to  find  another  fifty  men,  let  alone  three  or  four 
hundred?  He  will  need  five  and  twenty  score  for  this, 
and  he  dare  not  move  a  man!" 

"He  might  squeeze  his  country?"  the  Constable  ob- 
jected. 

"Pooh!  He  is  a  fool  of  the  new  school!  He  will  go 
back  to  his  cabbages  before  he  will  do  that !  I  tell  you, " 
he  continued,  laying  his  hand  on  the  other's  knee,  "he 
has  got  Perigord,  the  main  part  of  it,  into  order!  Ay, 
into  order!  And  if  he  don't  go,  we  shall  have  to  mend 
our  manners,"  with  a  grin,  "and  get  our  governments 
into  order,  too!" 

"By  the  Lord,  there  is  no  finger  wags  in  my  country 
imless  I  will  it!"  the  Constable  rejoined  with  some 
tartness.  "Since  he" — ^he  indicated  Joyeuse — "came 
over  to  us,  at  any  rate!  Don't  think  it!  But  there  it  is. 
If  there  were  no  whifflesnaffles  here  and  there,  and  no 


16  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

blood-letting,  it  would  not  suit  us  very  well,  would  it? 
You  don't  want  to  go  to  cabbage  planting,  Marshal,  more 
than  I  do?" 

The  Marshal  smiled. 

Late  that  night  the  young  Duke  of  Joyeuse,  leaving 
his  people  at  the  end  of  the  street,  went  by  himself  to 
the  house  in  which  des  Ageaux  lodged  in  Lyons.  A 
woman  answered  his  summons,  and  not  knowing  the 
young  grandee — for  he  was  cloaked  to  the  nose — fetched 
the  Bat,  an  old,  lean,  lank-visaged  captain  who  played 
squire  of  the  body  to  des  Ageaux.  The  Bat  knew  the 
Duke  in  spite  of  his  cloak;  perhaps  he  had  him  for  a 
certain  reason  in  his  mind.  And  he  bowed  his  long,  stiff 
back  before  him,  and  would  have  fetched  lights ;  yet  with 
a  glum  face.  But  the  Duke  answered  him  shortly  that 
he  wanted  no  more  than  a  word  with  his  master,  and 
would  say  it  there. 

On  which,  "You  are  too  late,  my  lord,"  the  Bat  re- 
joined; and  Joyeuse  saw  that  with  all  his  politeness  he 
was  as  gloomy  as  his  name.  "He  left  Lyons  this  after- 
noon." 

"With  what  attendance?"  the  Duke  asked  in  great 
surprise.     For  he  had  not  heard  of  it. 

"Alone,  my  lord  Duke." 

"Does  he  return  to-morrow?" 

"I  know  not." 

"But  you  know  something!"  the  young  noble  retorted 
with  more  of  vexation  than  the  circumstances  seemed  to 
justify. 

"My  lord,  nothing,"  the  Bat  answered,  "save  that 
we  are  ordered  to  follow  him  to-morrow  by  way  of  Cler- 
mont." 


A  KING  IN  COUNCIL.  17 

"To  his  province?" 

"Even  so,  my  lord." 

Joyeuse  struck  his  booted  foot  against  the  pavement, 
and  the  sombre  Bat,  whose  ears — some  said  he  got  his 
name  from  them — were  almost  as  long  as  his  legs,  caught 
the  genial  chink  of  gold  crowns.  It  was  such  music  as 
he  seldom  heard,  for  he  had  a  vision  of  a  heavy  bag  of 
them;  and  his  eyes  glistened. 

But  the  chink  was  all  he  had  of  them.  Joyeuse  turned 
away,  and  with  a  stifled  sigh  and  a  shrug  went  back  to 
the  play-table  at  the  Archbishop's  palace.  Sinning  and 
repenting  were  the  two  occupations  in  which  he  had 
spent  one  half  of  his  short  life;  and  if  there  was  a  thing 
which  he  did  with  greater  ardour  than  the  first — it  was 
the  second. 


CHAPTER  I. 

villeneuve-l'abbesse. 

The  horse  looked  piteously  at  the  man.  Blood  oozed 
from  its  broken  knees  and  its  legs  quivered  under  it. 
The  man  holding  his  scratched  and  abraded  hand  to 
his  mouth  returned  the  beast's  look,  at  first  with  promise 
of  punishment,  but  by  and  by  less  unkindly.  He  was  a 
just  man,  and  he  saw  that  the  fault  was  his;  since  it  was 
he  who,  after  crossing  the  ridge,  had  urged  the  horse  out 
of  the  path  that  he  might  be  spared  some  part  of  the 
weary  descent.  Out  of  the  path,  and  cunningly  hidden 
by  a  tuft  of  rough  grass,  a  rabbit-hole  had  lain  in  wait. 

He  contented  himself  with  a  word  of  disgust,  therefore, 
chucked  the  rein  impatiently — since  justice  has  its  limits 
— and  began  to  lead  the  horse  down  the  descent,  which 
a  short  sward  rendered  slippery.  But  he  had  not  gone 
many  paces  before  he  halted.  The  horse's  painful  limp 
and  the  sweat  that  broke  out  on  its  shoulders  indicated 
that  two  broken  knees  were  not  the  worst  of  the  damage. 
The  man  let  the  rein  go,  resigned  himseK  to  the  position, 
and,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  scanned  the  scene  before 
him. 

The  accident  had  happened  on  the  south  side  of  the 
long  swell  of  chalk  hills  which  the  traveller  had  been 
mounting  for  an  hour  past;  and  scarcely  a  stone 's-throw 

18 


VILLENEUVE-L'ABBESSE.  19 

below  the  mined  wind-mill  that  had  been  his  landmark 
for  leagues.  To  right  and  left  of  him,  under  a  pale-blue 
sky,  the  breezy,  open  down,  carpeted  with  wild  thyme 
and  vetches,  and  alive  wath  the  hum  of  bees,  stretched  in 
long  soft  undulations,  marred  by  no  sign  of  man  save  a 
second  and  a  third  wind-mill  ranged  in  line  on  the 
highest  breasts.  Below  him  the  slope  of  sward  and  fern, 
broken  here  by  a  solitary  blackthorn,  there  by  a  clump 
of  whin  and  briars,  swept  gently  down  to  a  shallow  wide 
valley — almost  a  plain — green  and  thickly  wooded, 
beyond  which  the  landscape  rose  again  slowly  and 
imperceptibly  into  uplands.  Through  this  wide  valley 
flowed  from  left  to  right  a  silvery  river,  its  meandering 
course  marked  by  the  lighter  foliage  of  willows  and 
poplars;  and  immediately  below  the  traveller  a  cluster 
of  roofless  hovels  on  the  bank  seemed  to  mark  a  ford. 

On  all  the  hill  about  him,  on  the  slopes  of  thyme,  and 
heather,  and  yellow  gorse,  the  low  sun  was  shining — 
from  his  right,  and  from  a  Httle  behind  him,  so  that  his 
shadow  stretched  far  across  the  sward.  But  in  the  valley 
about  the  river  and  the  ford  evening  was  beginning  to 
fall,  grey,  peaceful,  silent.  For  a  time  his  eyes  roved 
hither  and  thither,  seeking  a  halting-place  of  more 
promise  than  the  ruined  cots;  and  at  length  they 
found  what  they  sought.  He  marked,  rising  from  a 
mass  of  trees  a  little  beyond  the  ford,  a  thin  curl  of 
smoke,  so  light,  so  grey,  as  to  be  undiscoverable  by 
any  but  the  sharpest  eyes — ^but  his  were  of  the  sharp- 
est. The  outlme  of  the  woods  at  the  same  point  indi- 
cated a  clearing  within  a  wide  loop  of  the  river;  and 
putting  the  one  with  the  other,  des  Ageaux — for  it  was 
he — came  to  a  fair  certainty  that  a  house  of  some  mag- 
nitude lay  hidden  there. 


2b  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

At  any  rate  he  saw  no  better  chance  of  shelter.  It  was 
that  of  the  ruined  hovels  and  the  roadside,  and  taking 
the  rein  once  more,  he  led  the  horse  down  the  hill,  and 
in  the  first  dusk  of  the  evening  crossed  the  pale  clear 
water  on  stepping-stones.  He  suffered  the  horse  to  stand 
awhile  in  the  stream  and  drink  and  cool  its  legs  amid  the 
dark,  waving  masses  of  weed.  Then  he  urged  it  up  the 
bank,  and  led  it  along  the  track,  that  was  fast  growing 
dim,  and  grey,  and  lonesome. 

The  horse  moved  painfully,  knuckling  over  at  every 
step.  Yet  night  had  not  quite  fallen  when  the  traveller, 
plodding  along  beside  it,  saw  two  stone  pillars  standing 
gaunt  and  phantom-like  on  the  left  of  the  path.  Each 
bore  aloft  a  carved  escutcheon,  and  in  that  weird  half- 
light  and  with  a  backing  of  dark  forest  trees  the  two 
might  have  been  taken  for  ghosts.  Their  purpose,  how- 
ever, was  plain,  for  they  flanked  the  opening,  at  right 
angles  to  his  path,  of  a  rough  road,  at  the  end  of  which, 
at  a  distance  of  some  ten  score  paces  from  the  pillars, 
appeared  an  open  gateway  framed  in  a  dim  wall.  No 
more  than  that,  for  above  was  the  pale  sky,  and  on 
either  hand  the  black  line  of  trees  hedged  the  narrow 
picture. 

The  traveller  peered  awhile  at  the  escutcheons.  But 
gathering  darkness  and  the  lichens  which  covered  the 
stone  foiled  him,  and  he  was  little  the  w^iser  when  he 
turned  down  the  avenue.  When  he  had  traversed  a 
half  of  its  length  the  trees  fell  back  on  either  hand,  and 
revealed  the  sullen  length  of  a  courtyard  wall,  and  rising 
within  it,  a  little  on  his  right,  a  dark  mass  of  building, 
compact  in  the  main  of  two  round  towers,  of  the  date  of 
Philip  Augustus,  with  some  additions  of  more  modern 
times.     The  effect  of  the  pile,  viewed  in  that  half-light, 


VILLENEUVE-L'ABBESSE.  21 

was  gloomy  if  not  forbidding ;  but  the  open  gateway,  the 
sled-marks  that  led  to  it,  and  the  wisps  of  hay  which 
strewed  the  road,  no  less  than  the  broken  yoke  that  hung 
in  the  old  elm  beside  the  entrance — all  these,  which  the 
Lieutenant's  eyes  were  quick  to  discern,  seemed  to  offer 
a  more  homely  and  more  simple  welcome. 

A  silent  welcome,  nevertheless,  borne  on  the  scent 
of  new-mown,  haK-gathered  hay;  a  scent  which  des 
Ageaux  was  destined  to  associate  ever  after  with  this 
beginning  of  an  episode,  and  with  his  entrance  in  the 
gloaming,  amid  quiet  things.  Slowly  he  passed  under 
the  gateway,  leading  the  halting  horse.  Fallen  hay, 
swept  from  the  cart  by  the  brow  of  the  arch,  deadened 
his  footfalls,  and  before  he  was  discovered  he  was  able  to 
appreciate  the  enclosure,  half  courtyard,  half  fold-yard, 
sloping  downward  from  the  house  and  shut  in  on  the 
other  sides  by  a  tile-roofed  wall.  At  the  lower  end  on 
his  left  were  stalls,  and  sheds,  and  stables,  and  a  vague, 
mysterious  huddle  of  ploughs  and  gear,  and  feeding 
beasts,  and  farm  refuse.  Between  this  mass — ^to  which 
the  night  began  to  lend  strange  forms — and  the  great, 
towered  house  which  loomed  black  against  the  sky,  lay 
the  slope  of  the  court,  broken  midway  by  the  walled 
marge  of  a  swell  something  Italian  in  fashion,  and  speak- 
ing of  more  prosperous  days.  On  this  there  sat,  as  the 
traveller  saw,  two  figures. 

And  then  one  only.  For  as  he  looked,  uncertain 
whether  to  betake  himself  first  to  the  stables  of  the 
house,  one  of  the  two  figures  sprang  from  the  wall- 
edge,  and  came  bounding  to  him  with  hands  upraised, 
flying  skirts,  a  sharp  cry  of  warning. 

"Oh,  take  care,  Charles!"  it  cried.  "Go  back  before 
M.  le  Vicomte  comes!" 


22  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

Then,  at  six  paces  from  him,  she  knew  him  for  a 
stranger,  and  the  last  word  fell  scarcely  breathed  from 
her  lips;  while  he,  knowing  her  for  a  girl,  and  young  by 
her  voice,  uncovered.  "I  seek  only  a  night's  shelter," 
he  said  stiffly.  "Pardon  me,  mademoiselle,  the  alarm  I 
fear  I  have  caused  you.  My  horse  slipped  on  the  hill, 
and  is  unable  to  travel  farther." 

She  stood  staring  at  him  in  astonishment,  and  until 
her  companion  at  the  well  came  forward  made  no  reply. 
Something  in  the  movements  of  this  second  figure  as  it 
crossed  the  court  struck  the  eye  as  abnormal,  but  it  was 
only  when  it  came  quite  close  that  the  stranger  discovered 
that  the  lad  before  him  was  slightly  hump-backed. 

"You  have  met  with  a  mischance,"  the  youth  said  with 
awkward  diffidence. 

"Yes." 

"Whatever  the  cause,  you  are  welcome.  Go,  Bonne, " 
the  young  man  continued,  addressing  the  girl,  "it  is 
better  you  went — and  tell  my  father  that  a  gentleman  is 
here  craving  shelter.  When  I  have  stabled  his  horse  I 
will  bring  him  in.  This  way,  if  you  please!"  the  lad 
continued,  turning  to  lead  the  way  to  the  stables,  but 
casting  from  moment  to  moment  timid  looks  at  his 
guest.  "The  place  is  rough,  but  such  as  it  is,  it  is  at  your 
service.     Have  you  ridden  far  to-day,  if  it  please  you?" 

' '  From  Rochechouart. ' ' 

"It  is  well  we  had  not  closed  the  gates,"  the  youth 
answered  shyly;  "we  close  them  an  hour  after  sunset  by 
rule.  But  to-day  the  men  have  been  making  hay,  and 
we  sup  late." 

The  stranger  expressed  his  obligation,  and,  following 
his  guide,  led  his  horse  through  one  of  the  doors  of  a  long 
range  of  stabling  built  against  the  western  wall  of  the 


VILLENEUVE-L'ABBESSE.  23 

courtyard.  Within  all  was  dark,  and  he  waited  while  his 
companion  fetched  a  lanthorn.  The  light,  when  it  came, 
disclosed  a  sad  show  of  empty  mangers,  broken  racks, 
and  roof  beams  hung  with  cobwebs.  Rain  and  sun- 
shine, it  was  evident,  entered  through  more  holes  than 
one,  and  round  the  men's  heads  a  couple  of  bats,  startled 
by  the  lanthorn-light,  flitted  noiselessly  to  and  fro. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  place,  the  roof  above  three 
or  four  stalls  showed  signs  of  recent  repair;  and  here  the 
young  man  invited  his  guest  to  place  his  beast. 

"But  I  shall  be  turning  out  your  horses,"  the  stranger 
objected. 

The  youth  laughed  a  little  awry.  "There's  but  my 
father's  gelding,"  he  said,  "and  old  Panza  the  pony. 
And  they  are  in  the  ox-stable  where  they  have  company. 
This,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  roof,  "was  made  good 
for  my  sister  the  Abbess's  horses." 

The  guest  nodded,  and,  after  examining  his  beast's 
injuries,  bathed  its  knees  with  fresh  water;  then  pro- 
ducing a  bandage  from  his  saddle-bag  he  soaked  it  in 
the  water  and  skilfully  wound  it  round  the  strained  fet- 
lock. The  lad  held  the  lanthorn,  envy,  mingled  with  ad- 
miration, growing  in  his  eyes  as  he  watched  the  other's 
skilled  hands  and  method. 

"You  are  well  used  to  horses?"  he  said. 

"  Tolerably, "  des  Ageaux  answered,  looking  up.  "Are 
not  you?"  For  in  those  days  it  was  an  essential  part  of 
a  gentleman's  education. 

The  lad  sighed.  "Not  to  horses  of  this  sort,"  he  said, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  And  des  Ageaux  took  note 
of  the  sigh  and  the  words,  but  said  nothing.  Instead 
he  removed  his  sword  and  pistols  from  his  saddle,  and 
would  have  taken  up  his  bags  also,  but  the  young  man 


24  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

interposed  and  took  possession  of  them.  A  moment  and 
the  two  were  crossing  the  darkened  courtyard.  The 
Hght  of  the  lanthorn  made  it  difficult  to  see  aught  beyond 
the  circle  of  its  rays,  but  the  stranger  noticed  that  the 
chateau  consisted  half  of  a  steep-roofed  house,  and  half 
of  the  two  round  towers  he  had  seen ;  house  and  towers 
standing  in  one  long  line.  Two  rickety  wooden  bridges 
led  across  a  moat  to  two  doors,  the  one  set  in  the  inner 
of  the  two  towers — probably  this  was  the  ancient  en- 
trance— ^the  other  in  the  more  modern  part. 

On  the  bridge  leading  to  the  latter  two  serving-men 
with  lights  were  awaiting  them.  The  nearer  domestic 
advanced,  bowing.  "M.  le  Vicomte  will  descend  if" — 
and  then,  after  a  pause,  speaking  more  stiffly,  "M.  le 
Vicomte  has  not  yet  heard  whom  he  has  the  honour  of 
entertaining." 

"I  have  no  pretensions  to  put  him  to  the  trouble  of 
descending,"  the  traveller  answered  politely.  "Say  if 
you  please  that  a  gentleman  of  Brittany  seeks  shelter 
for  the  night,  and  would  fain  pay  his  respects  to  M.  le 
Vicomte  at  his  convenience." 

The  servant  bowed,  and  turning  with  ceremony,  led  the 
way  into  a  bare,  dimly-lit  hall  open  to  its  steep  oaken 
roof,  and  not  measurably  more  comfortable  or  less 
draughty  than  the  stable.  Here  and  there  dusty  blazon- 
ings  looked  down  out  of  the  darkness,  or  rusty  weapons 
left  solitary  in  racks  too  large  for  them  gave  back  gleams 
of  light.  In  the  middle  of  the  stone  floor  a  trestle  table 
such  as  might  have  borne  the  weight  of  huge  sirloins  and 
great  bustards,  and  feasted  two  score  men-at-arms  in  the 
days  of  the  great  Francis,  supported  a  litter  of  shabby 
odds  and  ends;  old  black-jacks  jostling  riding-spurs, 
and  a   leaping-pole    lying  hard  by  a  drenching- horn. 


VILLENEUVE-L'ABBESSE.  25 

An  open  door  on  the  tower  side  of  the  hall  presented 
the  one  point  of  warmth  in  the  apartment,  for  through 
it  entered  a  stream  of  ruddy  light  and  an  odour  that 
announced  where  the  kitchen  lay. 

But  if  this  were  the  dining-hall?  If  the  guest  felt 
alarm  on  this  point  he  was  soon  reassured.  The  servant 
conducted  him  up  a  short  flight  of  six  steps  which  rose 
in  one  corner.  The  hall,  in  truth,  huge  as  it  seemed  in 
its  dreary  emptiness,  was  but  one  half  of  the  original 
hall.  The  leftward  half  had  been  partitioned  off  and 
converted  into  two  storeys — the  lower  story  raised  a 
little  from  the  ground  for  the  sake  of  dryness — of  more 
modern  chambers.  More  modern;  but  if  that  into 
which  the  guest  was  ushered,  a  square  room  not  unhand- 
some in  its  proportions,  stood  for  sample,  scarcely  more 
cheerful.  The  hangings  on  the  walls  were  of  old  Sara- 
zinois,  but  worn  and  faded  to  the  colour  of  dust.  Car- 
pets of  leather  covered  the  floor,  but  they  were  in  holes 
and  of  a  like  hue ;  while  the  square  stools  clad  in  velvet 
and  gilt-nailed,  which  stood  against  the  walls,  were  thread- 
bare of  stuff  and  tarnished  of  nails.  In  winter,  warmed  by 
the  ruddy  blaze  of  a  generous  fire,  and  well  sconced, 
and  filled  with  pleasant  company  seated  about  a  well- 
spread  board,  the  room  might  have  passed  muster  and 
even  conduced  to  ease.  But  as  the  dusky  frame  of 
a  table,  lighted  by  four  poor  candles — that  strove  in 
vain  with  the  vast  obscurity — and  set  with  no  great 
store  of  provision,  it  wore  an  air  of  meagreness  not  a 
whit  removed  from  poverty. 

The  man  who  stood  beside  the  table  in  the  light  of 
the  candles,  and  formed  the  life  of  the  picture,  blended 
well  with  the  furnishings.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  with 
stooping  shoulders  and  a  high-nosed  face,  that  in  youth 


26  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

had  been  masterful  and  now  was  peevish  and  weary. 
He  wore  a  sword  and  much  faded  lace,  and  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  his  guest  moved  forward  a  pace  and  halted, 
with  the  precision  and  stiffness  of  clockwork.  "I  have 
the  honour,"  he  began,  "to  welcome,  I  believe " 

"A  gentleman  of  Brittany,"  des  Ageaux  answ^ered, 
bowing  low.  It  by  no  means  suited  his  plans  to  be 
recognised.  ''And  one,  M.  le  Vicomte,  who  respect- 
fully craves  a  night's  hospitality." 

"Which  the  chateau  of  Villeneuve-l'Abbesse, "  the 
Vicomte  replied  wdth  grandeur,  "  has  often  granted  to 
the  greatest,  nor" — he  waved  his  hand  with  formal  grace 
— "ever  refused  to  the  meanest.  They  have  attended,  I 
trust,"  he  continued  with  the  air  of  one  who,  at  the 
head  of  a  great  household,  knows,  none  the  less,  how  to 
think  for  his  guests,  "to  your  people,  sir?" 

"Alas,  M.  le  Vicomte,"  des  Ageaux  answered,  a  faint 
twinkle  in  his  eyes  belying  the  humility  of  his  tone,  "I 
have  none;  I  am  travelling  alone." 

"Alone?"  The  Vicomte  repeated  the  word  in  a  tone 
of  wonder.     "You  have  no  servants  with  you — at  all?" 

"Alas — no." 

"Is  it  possible?" 

Des  Ageaux  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  spread  out 
his  hands.     "In  these  days,  M.  le  Vicomte,  yes." 

Tlie  Vicomte  seemed  by  the  droop  of  his  shoulders  to 
admit  the  plea ;  perhaps  because  the  other's  eyes  strayed 
involuntarily  to  the  shabby  furniture.     He  shook  his 

head  gloomily.     "Since  Coutras "  he  began,  and 

then,  considering  that  he  was  unbending  too  soon,  he 
broke  off.  "You  met  with  some  accident,  I  believe, 
sir?"  he  said.     "But  first,  I  did  not  catch  your  name?" 

"Des  Voeux,"  the  Lieutenant  answered,  adopting  on 


VILLENEUVE-L'ABBESSE.  27 

the  spur  of  the  moment  one  somewhat  Hke  his  own. 
"My  horse  fell  and  cut  its  knees  on  the  hill  about  a  mile 
beyond  the  ford.  I  much  fear  it  has  also  strained  a 
fetlock." 

"It  will  not  be  fit  to  travel  to-morrow,  I  doubt?" 

The  guest  spread  out  his  hands,  intimating  that  time 
and  the  morrow  must  take  care  of  themselves ;  or  that  it 
was  no  use  to  fight  against  fate. 

"I  must  lend  you  something  from  the  stables,  then," 
the  Vicomte  answered;  as  if  at  least  a  score  of  horses 
stood  at  rack  and  manger  in  his  stalls.  "But  I  am 
forgetting  your  own  needs,  sir.  Circumstances  have 
thrown  my  household  out  of  gear,  and  we  sup  late  to- 
night.    But  we  shall  not  need  to  wait  long." 

He  had  barely  spoken  when  the  two  serving-men  who 
had  met  the  Lieutenant  on  the  bridge  entered,  one 
behind  the  other,  bearing  with  some  pomp  of  circum- 
stance a  couple  of  dishes.  Tliey  set  these  on  the  board, 
and  withdrawing — not  without  leaving  behind  them  a 
pleasant  scent  of  new-mown  hay — returned  quickly 
bearing  two  more.  Then  falling  back  they  announced 
by  the  mouth  of  the  least  meagre  that  my  lord  was 
served. 

The  meal  which  they  announced,  though  home-grown 
and  of  the  plainest,  was  sufficient,  and  des  Ageaux,  on 
the  Vicomte 's  invitation,  took  his  seat  upon  a  stool  at  a 
nicely  regulated  distance  below  his  host.  As  he  did 
so  the  girl  he  had  seen  in  the  courtyard  glided  m  by  a 
side  door  and  silently  took  her  seat  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  table.  Apparently  the  Vicomte  thought  his  guest 
below  the  honour  of  an  introduction,  for  he  said  nothing. 
And  the  girl  only  acknowledged  the  Lieutenant's  respect- 
ful salutation  by  a  bow. 


28  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

The  four  candles  shed  a  feeble  light  on  the  table,  and 
left  the  greater  part  of  the  room  in  darkness.  Des 
Ageaiix  could  not  see  the  girl  well,  and  he  got  little 
more  than  an  impression  of  a  figure  moderately  tall  and 
somewhat  plump,  and  of  a  gentle,  downcast  face.  Form 
and  face  owned,  certainly,  the  charm  of  youth  and  fresh- 
ness. But  to  eyes  versed  in  the  brilliance  of  a  Court  and 
the  magnificence  of  grandes  dames  they  lacked  the  more 
striking  characteristics  of  beauty. 

He  gave  her  a  thought,  however,  pondering  while  he 
gave  ear  to  the  Vicomte's  querulous  condescensions  how 
so  gentle  a  creature — for  her  gentleness  and  placidity 
struck  him — came  of  so  stiff  and  peevish  a  father.  But 
that  was  all.  Or  it  might  have  been  all  if  as  the  thought 
passed  through  his  mind  his  host  had  not  abruptly 
changed  the  conversation  and  disclosed  another  side 
of  his  character. 

"Where  is  Roger?"  he  asked,  addressing  the  girl 
with  sharpness. 

"I  do  not  know,  sir,"  she  murmured. 

A  retort  seemed  hovering  on  the  Vicomte's  lips,  when 
the  youth  who  had  taken  the  guest  to  the  stable,  and 
had  stayed  without,  perhaps  to  make  some  change  in 
his  rustic  clothes,  entered  and  slid  timidly  into  his  place 
beside  his  sister.  He  hoped,  probably,  to  pass  unseen, 
but  the  Vicomte,  his  great  high  nose  twitching,  fixed 
him  with  his  eyes  and  pointed  inexorably  at  him,  with  a 
spoon  held  delicately  between  thumb  and  finger.  "  You 
would  not  think,"  he  said  with  grim  abruptness,  "that 
that — that,  M.  des  Voeux,  was  son  of  mine?" 

Des  Ageaux  started.  "I fear, "he  said  hastily,  "that 
it  was  I,  sir,  who  made  him  late.  He  was  good  enough  to 
receive  me." 


VILLENEUVE-L'ABBESSE.  29 

"I  can  only  assure  you/'  the  Vicomte  replied  with 
cruel  wdt,  "that  whoever  made  him  late,  it  was  not  I 
who  made  him — as  he  is!  The  Villeneuves,  till  his 
day,  I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  have  been  straight  and  tall, 
and  men  of  their  hands,  as  ready  with  a  blow  as  a  word ! 
Men  to  make  their  way  in  the  world.  But  you  see  him! 
You  see  him!  Can  you,"  he  continued,  his  eyes  half- 
closed,  dwelling  on  the  lad,  whose  suffering  was  evident, 
"at  Court?  Or  courting?  Or  stepping  a  pavanne? 
Or " 

"Father!" 

The  word  burst  from  the  girl's  lips,  drawn  from  her 
by  sheer  pain.  The  Vicomte  turned  to  her  with  icy 
courtesy.  ' '  You  spoke,  I  think? ' '  he  said  in  a  tone  which 
rebuked  her  for  the  freedom  on  which  she  had  ventured. 
"  Just  so.  I  was  forgetting.  We  live  so  quietly  here,  we 
use  so  little  ceremony  with  one  another,  that  even  I  for- 
get at  times  that  family  matters  are  not  interesting  to  a 
stranger.  Were  my  elder  daughter  here,  M.  des — ah,  des 
Voeux,  yes — my  daughter  the  Abbess,  who  knows  the 
world,  and  has  some  tincture  of  manners,  and  is  not  taken 
commonly  for  a  waiting-woman,  she  would  be  able  to 
entertain  you  better.  But  you  see  what  we  are.  For," 
with  a  smirk,  "it  were  rude  not  to  include  myself  with 
my  family." 

No  wonder,  the  guest  thought,  as  he  listened,  full  of 
pity — no  wonder  the  lad  had  spoken  timidly  and  shyly, 
if  this  were  the  daily  treatment  he  received !  If  poverty, 
working  on  pride,  had  brought  the  last  of  a  great  family 
to  this — to  repaying  on  the  innocents  who  shared  his 
decay  the  slings  and  arrows  of  unkind  fortune!  The 
girl's  exclamation,  wnmg  from  her  by  her  brother's 
suffering,  had  gone  to  the  Lieutenant's  heart,  though 


30  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

that  heart  was  not  of  the  softest.  He  would  have  given 
something  to  silence  the  bitter  old  tyrant.  But  ex- 
perience told  him  that  he  might  make  matters  worse. 
He  was  no  knight-errant,  no  rescuer  of  dames;  and,  after 
all,  the  Vicomte  was  their  father.  So  while  he  hesitated, 
seeking  in  vain  a  safe  subject,  the  sharp  tongue  was 
at  work  again. 

"I  would  like  you  to  see  my  elder  daughter,"  the 
Vicomte  resumed  with  treacherous  blandness.  "She 
has  neither  a  ploughboy's  figure,  nor,"  slowly,  "a  dairy- 
maid's speech.  Her  manners  are  quite  like  those  of  the 
world.  She  might  go  anywhere,  even  to  Court,  where 
she  has  been,  without  rendering  herself  the  sul^ject  of 
ridicule  and  contempt.  It  is  truly  unfortunate  for  us" 
— with  a  bow — "that  you  cannot  see  her. " 

"She  is  not  at  home?"  the  Lieutenant  said  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something.  He  was  full  of  pity  for  the 
girl  whose  face,  now  red,  now  pale,  betrayed  how  she 
suffered  under  the  discipline. 

"She  does  not  live  at  home,"  the  Vicomte  answered. 
And  then — with  curious  inconsistency  he  now  hid  and 
now  declared  his  poverty — "We  have  not  much  left  of 
which  we  can  be  proud,"  he  continued,  "since  the  battle 
of  Coutras  seven  years  back  took  from  the  late  King's 
friends  all  they  had.  But  the  Abbey  of  A'laye  is  still 
our  appanage.     My  elder  daughter  is  the  Abbess." 

"It  lies,  I  think,  near  Vlaye?" 

"Yes,  some  half -league  from  Vlaye  and  three  leagues 
from  here.  You  have  heard  of  Vlaye,  then,  Monsieur — 
Monsieur  des  Voeux?" 

"Without  doubt,  M.  le  Vicomte." 

"Indeed!  In  what  way,  may  I  ask?"  There  was  a 
faint  tinge  of  suspicion  in  his  tone. 


VILLENEUVE-L'ABBESSE.  31 

"At  Rochechouart  I  was  told  that  the  roads  in  that 
direction  were  not  over  safe." 

The  Vicomte  laughed  in  his  sardonic  fashion.  "They 
begin  to  cry  out,  do  they?"  he  said.  "The  fat  burgesses 
who  fleece  us?  Not  very  safe,  ha,  ha!  The  roads! 
Not  so  safe  as  their  back-shops  where  they  lend  to  us 
at  cent  per  cent!" — with  bitterness.  "It  is  well  that 
there  is  some  one  to  fleece  them  in  their  turn!" 

"They  told  me  as  much  as  that,"  des  Ageaux  replied 
with  gravity.  "So  much,  indeed,  that  I  was  surprised 
to  find  your  gates  still  open !  They  gave  me  to  understand 
that  no  man  slept  without  a  guard  within  four  leagues 
ofVlaye." 

"They  told  you  that,  did  they?"  the  Vicomte  answered. 
And  he  chuckled,  well  satisfied.  It  pleased  him  to  think 
that  if  he  and  his  could  no  longer  keep  Jacques  Bon- 
homme  in  order,  there  were  others  who  could.  "They 
told  you  not  far  from  the  truth.  A  little  later,  and  you 
had  been  barred  out  even  here.  Not  that  I  fear  the 
Captain  of  Vlaye.  Hawks  pike  not  out  hawks'  eyes," 
with  a  lifting  of  the  head,  and  an  odd  show  of  ar- 
rogance.   "We  are  good  friends,  M.  de  Vlaye  and  I." 

"Still  you  bar  your  gates,  soon  or  late? ' '  the  Lieutenant 
replied  with  a  smile. 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  Vicomte's  face.  "  Not 
against  him,"  he  said  shortly. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  des  Voeux  replied.  "I  had  for- 
gotten. You  have  the  Crocans  also  at  no  great  distance. 
I  was  forgetting  them." 

The  sudden  rigidity  of  his  younger  listeners,  and  the 
silence  which  fell  on  all,  warned  him,  as  soon  as  he  had 
spoken,  that  he  had  said  something  amiss.  Nor  was  the 
silence  all.     When  his  host  next  spoke — after  an  interval 


32  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

— it  was  with  a  passion  as  far  removed  from  the  cynical 
rudeness  to  which  he  had  treated  his  children  as  are  the 
poles  apart.  "That  name  is  not  named  in  this  house'" 
he  cried,  his  voice  thin  and  tremulous.  "By  no  oneT' 
he  struck  the  table  with  a  shaking  hand.  "Understand 
me,  sir,  by  no  one !  God's  curse  on  them!  Ay,  and  on 
all  who " 

"No,  sir,  no !"  The  cry  came  from  the  girl.  " Do  not 
curse  him!" 

She  was  on  her  feet.  For  an  instant  the  Lieutenant, 
seeing  her  father's  distorted  face,  feared  that  he  would 
strike  her.  But  the  result  was  different.  The  opposition 
that  might  have  maddened  the  angry  man,  had  the  effect 
of  sobering  him.  "Sit  down!"  he  muttered,  passing  his 
napkin  over  his  face.  "Sit  down,  fool!  Sit  down! 
And  you ' ' — he  paused  a  moment,  striving  to  regain  the 
gibing  tone  that  was  habitual  to  him — "  you,  sir,  may  now 
see  how  it  is.  I  told  you  we  had  no  manners.  You 
have  now  the  proof  of  it.  I  doubt  I  must  keep  you,  until 
the  Abbess,  my  daughter,  pays  her  next  visit,  that  you 
may  see  at  least  one  Villeneuve  who  is  neither  clown 
nor  dotard!" 

Man  of  the  world  as  he  was,  the  King's  Lieutenant 
knew  not  what  to  say  to  this  outburst.  He  murmured 
a  vague  apology,  and  thought  how  different  all  was  from 
the  anticipations  which  the  scent  of  hay  and  the  farm- 
yard peace  had  raised  in  him  on  his  arrival.  This  old 
man,  rotting  in  the  husk  of  his  former  greatness,  girding 
at  his  helpless  children,  gnawing,  in  the  decay  of  his 
family's  grandeur,  on  his  heart  and  theirs,  returning 
scorn  for  scorn,  and  spite  for  spite,  but  on  those  who  were 
innocent  of  either,  ignorant  of  either — this  was  a  picture 
to  the  painting  of  which  the  most  fanciful  must  have 


VILLENEUVE-L'ABBESSE.  33 

brought  some  imagination.  Under  the  surface  lay  some- 
thing more;  something  that  had  to  do  with  the  Crocans. 
He  fancied  that  he  could  make  a  guess  at  the  secret ;  and 
that  it  had  to  do  with  the  girl's  lover.  But  the  meal  was 
closing,  the  Vicomte's  rising  interrupted  his  thoughts, 
and  whatever  interest  the  question  had  for  him,  he  was 
forced  to  put  it  away  for  the  time. 

The  Vicomte  bowed  a  stiff  good-night.  "Boor  as  he 
is,  I  fear  that  you  must  now  put  up  with  my  son,"  he 
said,  smiling  awry.  "He  has  the  Tower  Room,  where, 
in  my  time,  I  have  known  the  best  company  in  the 
province  lie,  when  good  company  was;  it  has  been 
scarce,"  he  continued  bitterly,  "since  Coutras.  He  will 
find  you  a  lodging  there,  and  if  the  accommodation  be 
rough,  and  your  room-fellow  what  you  see  him,"  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  "at  least  you  will  have  space  enough 
and  follow  good  gentry.  I  have  known  the  Governor 
of  Poitou  and  the  Lieutenant  of  Perigord,  with  two  of 
the  Vicomtes  of  the  Limousin,  lie  there — and  fourteen 
truckle-beds  about  them.  In  those  days  was  little  need 
to  bar  our  gates  at  night.  Solomon!  The  lanthom, 
fool!    I  bid  you  good-night,  sir!" 

Des  Ageaux  bowed  his  acknowledgements,  and 
following  in  the  train  of  an  older  serving-man  than  he 
had  yet  seen;  who,  bearing  a  lanthorn,  led  him  up  a 
small  staircase.  Roger  the  hapless  followed.  On  the 
first  floor  the  guest  noted  the  doors  of  four  rooms,  two 
on  either  side  of  a  middle  passage,  that  got  its  light  from 
a  window  at  the  end  of  the  house.  Such  rooms — or 
rooms  opening  one  through  the  other — were  at  that  date 
reserved  for  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  chateau,  and 
their  daughters,  maiden  or  married.  For  something  of 
the  old  system  which  secluded  women,  and  a  century 


34  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

before  had  forbidden  their  appearance  at  Court,  still 
prevailed ;  nor  was  the  Lieutenant  at  all  surprised  when 
his  guide,  turning  from  these  privileged  apartments,  led 
him  up  a  flight  of  four  or  five  steps  at  the  hither  end  of 
the  passage.     And  so  through  a  low  doorway. 

He  passed  the  door,  and  was  surprised  to  find  himself 
in  the  open  air  on  the  roof  of  the  hall,  the  stars  above 
him,  and  the  night  breeze  cooling  his  brow.  The  steeply- 
pitched  lead  ended  in  a  broad,  fiat  gutter,  fenced  by  a 
rail  fixed  in  the  parapet.  The  servant  led  him  along 
the  path  which  this  gutter  provided  to  a  door  in  the  wall 
of  the  great  round  tower  that  rose  twenty  feet  above  the 
house.  This  gave  entrance  to  a  small  chamber — one 
of  those  commonly  found  between  the  two  skins  of 
such  old  buildings — which  served  both  for  landing  and 
ante-room.  From  it  the  dark  opening  of  a  winding 
staircase  led  upwards  on  one  hand;  on  the  other  a 
low-browed  door  masked  the  course  of  the  downward 
flight. 

Across  this  closet — bare  as  bare  walls  could  make  it — 
the  grey-bearded  servant  led  him  in  two  strides,  and 
opening  a  farther  door  introduced  him  into  the  chamber 
which  had  seen  so  much  good  company.  It  was  a 
gloomy,  octagonal  room  of  great  size,  lighted  in  the  day- 
time by  four  deep-sunk  windows,  and  occupying — save 
for  such  narrow  closets  as  that  through  which  they 
entered — a  whole  storey  of  the  tower.  The  lanthorn  did 
but  make  darkness  visible,  but  Solomon  proceeded  to 
light  two  rushlights  that  stood  in  iron  sconces  on  the 
wall,  and  by  their  light  the  Lieutenant  discerned  three 
truckle-beds  laid  between  two  of  the  windows.  He 
could  well  believe,  so  vast  was  the  apartment,  that 
fourteen  had  not  cumbered  its  bareness.     At  this  date 


VILLENEUVE-L'ABBESSE.  35 

a  couple  of  chests,  as  many  stools,  a  bundle  of  old 
spears  and  a  heavy  three-legged  table  made  up,  with 
some  dingy,  tattered  hangings,  the  whole  furniture  of 
the  chamber. 

The  old  serving-man  set  down  the  lanthorn  and 
looked  about  him  sorrowfully. 

"Thirty-four  I've  seen  sleep  here,"  he  said.  "The 
Governor  of  Poitou,  and  the  Governor  of  Perigord,  and 
the  four  Vicomtes  of  the  Limousin,  and  twenty-eight 
gentles  in  truckles." 

"Twenty-eight?"  the  Lieutenant  questioned,  measur- 
ing in  some  astonishment  the  space  with  his  eye.  "But 
your  master  said " 

"Twenty-eight,  by  your  leave,"  the  man  answered 
obstinately.  "And  every  man  his  dog!  A  gentleman 
was  a  gentleman  then,  and  a  Vicomte  a  Vicomte.  But 
since  that  cursed  battle  at  Coutras  set  us  down  and  put 
these  Huguenots  up,  there  is  an  end  of  gentry  almost. 
Ay,  thirty — was  it  thirty,  I  said?" 

"Four,  you  said.  Thirty-four, ' '  des  Ageaux  answered, 
smiling.     "Good-night." 

The  man  shook  his  head  sombrely,  bade  them  good- 
night, and  closed  the  door  on  them. 

An  instant  later  he  could  be  heard  groping  his  way 
back  through  the  closet  and  over  the  roof.  The  Lieu- 
tenant, as  soon  as  the  sound  ceased,  looked  round  and 
thought  that  he  had  seldom  lain  in  a  gloomier  place. 
The  windows  were  but  wooden  lattices  innocent  of  glass, 
and  through  the  slats  of  the  nearest  a  strong  shoot  of 
ivy  grew  into  the  room.  The  night  air  entered  with  it 
and  stirred  the  ragged  hangings  that  covered  a  part  of 
the  walls;  hangings  that  to  add  to  the  general  melan- 
choly had  once  been  black,  a  remnant,  it  is  possible, 


36  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

of  the  funeral  trappings  of  some  dead  Vicomte.  Frogs 
croaked  in  a  puddle  without ;  one  of  the  lattices  creaked 
open  at  intervals,  only  to  close  again  with  a  hollow 
report;  the  rushlights  flared  sideways  in  the  draught. 
Des  Ageaux  had  read  of  such  a  room  in  the  old  romances, 
in  Bevis  of  Hampton,  or  the  History  of  Armida;  a  room 
of  shadows  and  gloom,  owl-flittings  and  dead  furnishings. 
But  he  smiled  at  the  thoughts  it  called  up.  He  had 
often  lain  in  his  cloak  under  the  sky  amid  dead  men. 
Nevertheless,  "Do  you  sleep  here  alone?"  he  asked, 
turning  to  his  companion,  who  had  seated  himseK  de- 
spondently on  one  of  the  beds. 

The  lad,  oppressed  by  what  had  gone  forward  down- 
stairs, barely  looked  up.  "Yes,"  he  began,  "since" — 
and  then,  breaking  off,  he  added  sullenly,  "Yes,  I  do." 

"Then  you  don't  lack  courage!"  des  Ageaux  replied. 

"People  sleep  well  when  they  are  tired,"  the  youth 
returned,  "as  I  am  to-night." 

The  Lieutenant  accepted  the  hint,  and  postponed 
until  the  morrow  the  questions  he  had  it  in  his  mind  to 
ask.  Nodding  a  good-humoured  assent  he  proceeded 
to  his  simple  arrangements  for  the  night,  placed  his 
sword  and  pistols  beside  the  truckle-bed,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  sleeping  as  soundly  on  his  thin  palliasse  as 
if  he  had  been  in  truth  the  poverty-stricken  gentleman 
of  Brittany  he  once  had  been  and  still  might  be  again. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE   TOWER    CHAMBER. 


An  hour  or  two  later  the  Lieutenant  awoke  suddenly. 
He  rose  on  his  elbow,  and  listened.  Inured  to  a  life  of 
change  which  had  cast  him  many  times  into  strange  beds 
and  the  company  of  stranger  bed-fellows,  he  had  not  to 
ask  himself  where  he  was,  or  how  he  came  to  be  there. 
He  Icnew  these  things  with  a  soldier's  instinct,  before  his 
eyes  were  open.  That  which  he  did  ask  himself  was, 
what  had  roused  him. 

For  it  was  still  the  dead  of  night,  and  all  in  the  chateau, 
and  all  without,  save  the  hoarse  voices  of  the  frogs, 
seemed  quiet.  Through  the  lattice  that  faced  him 
the  moonbeams  fell  on  the  floor  in  white,  criss-cross 
patterns ;  which  the  pointed  shape  of  the  windows  made 
to  resemble  chequered  shields — the  black  and  white 
escutcheons  of  his  native  province.  These  patches  of 
light  diffused  about  them  a  faint  radiance,  sufficient,  but 
no  more  than  sufficient,  to  reveal  the  outlines  of  the 
furniture,  the  darker  masses  of  the  beds,  and  even  the 
vague  limits  of  the  chamber.  He  marked  nothing 
amiss,  however,  except  that  which  had  probably  roused 
him.  The  nearest  lattice,  that  one  through  which  he  had 
noted  the  ivy  growing,  stood  wide  open.  Doubtless  the 
breeze,  light  as  it  was,  had  swung  the  casement  inwards, 

37 


38  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

and  the  creak  of  the  hmge,  or  the  coolness  of  the  un- 
broken stream  of  air  which  blew  across  his  bed,  had  dis- 
turbed him. 

Satisfied  with  the  explanation,  he  lay  down  with  a 
sigh  of  content,  and  was  about  to  sink  into  sleep  when 
a  low,  sibilant  sound  caught  his  ear,  fretted  him  awhile, 
finally  dragged  him  up,  broadly  awake.  What  was  it? 
What  caused  it?  The  gentle  motion  of  the  loosened 
ivy  on  the  sill?  Or  the  wind  toying  with  the  leaves  out- 
side? Or  the  stir  of  the  ragged  hangings  that  moved 
weirdly  on  the  wall?    Or  was  some  one  whispering? 

The  last  was  the  fact,  and,  assured  of  it,  des  Agcaux 
peered  through  the  gloom  at  the  nearer  pallet,  and  dis- 
covered that  it  was  empty.  Then  he  reflected.  The 
ivy,  which  grew  through  the  window,  must  have  held 
the  lattice  firm  against  a  much  stronger  breeze  than  was 
blowing.  It  followed  that  the  casement  had  been  opened 
by  some  one ;  probably  by  some  one  who  had  entered  the 
room  that  way. 

It  might  be  no  affair  of  his,  but  on  the  other  hand  it 
might  be  very  much  his  affair.  He  looked  about  the 
room,  making  no  sound,  but  keeping  a  hand  raised  to 
seize  his  weapons  on  the  least  alarm. 

He  could  discover  neither  figure  nor  any  sign  of 
movement  in  the  room.  Yet  the  whispering  persisted. 
More  puzzled,  he  raised  himself  higher,  and  then  a 
streak  of  light  which  the  low,  lumpy  mass  of  one  of  the 
truckle-beds  had  hidden,  broke  on  him.  It  shone  under 
the  door  by  which  he  had  entered,  and  proceeded,  be- 
yond doubt,  from  a  lanthorn  or  rushlight  in  the  ante- 
chamber. 

What  was  afoot?  It  is  not  as  a  rule  for  good  that 
men  whisper  at  dead  of  night,  nor  to  say  their  prayers 


THE  TOWER  CHAMBER.  39 

that  they  steal  from  their  beds  in  the  small  hours.  Des 
Ageaux  was  far  from  a  timid  man — or  he  had  not  been 
Lieutenant-Governor  of  Perigord — but  he  knew  himseK 
alone  in  a  strange  house,  and  a  remote  corner  of  that 
house ;  and  though  he  believed  that  he  held  the  map  of 
the  country^  he  might  be  deceiving  himself.  Possibly, 
though  he  had  seen  no  sign  of  it,  he  was  known.  His 
host  styled  himself  the  Captain  of  Vlaye's  friend;  he 
might  think  to  do  Maye  a  kindness  at  his  guest's  ex- 
pense. Nor  was  that  all.  Lonely  travellers  ran  risks  in 
those  days ;  it  was  not  only  from  inns  that  they  vanished 
and  left  no  sign.  He  bore,  it  was  true,  not  much  of  price 
about  him,  and  riding  without  attendance  might  be 
thought  to  have  less.  But,  all  said  and  done,  the  house 
was  remote,  the  Vicomte  poor  and  a  stranger.  It  might 
be  as  well  to  see  what  was  passing. 

He  rose  noiselessly  to  his  feet,  and,  taking  his  sword, 
crept  across  the  floor.  He  had  lain  down  in  the  greater 
part  of  his  clothes,  and  whatever  awaited  him,  he  was 
ready.  As  he  drew  near  the  door,  the  whispering  on 
the  farther  side  persisted.  But  it  was  low,  the  sound 
lacked  menace,  and  before  he  laid  his  ear  to  the  oak 
some  shame  of  the  proceeding  seized  him. 

His  scruples  were  wasted.  He  could  not,  even  when 
close,  distinguish  a  word;  so  wary  were  the  speakers, 
so  low  their  voices.  Then  the  absurdity  of  his  position, 
if  he  were  detected  and  the  matter  had  naught  to  do 
with  him,  took  him  by  the  throat.  The  chamber,  with 
its  patches  of  moonlight  and  its  dim  spaces,  was  all 
quiet  about  him,  and  either  he  must  rest  content  with 
that,  or  he  must  open  and  satisfy  himself.  He  took  his 
resolution,  found  the  latch,  and  opened  the  door. 

He  was  more  or  less  prepared  for  what  he  saw.     Not 


40  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

so  the  three  whom  he  surprised  in  their  midnight  con- 
ference. The  girl  whom  he  had  seen  at  supper  sprang 
with  a  cry  of  alarm  from  the  step  on  which  she  had 
her  seat,  and  retreating  upwards  as  quickly  as  the  cloak 
in  which  she  was  muffled  would  let  her,  made  as  if  she 
would  escape  by  the  tower  stairs.  The  two  men — 
Roger,  the  son  of  the  house,  and  another,  a  taller  youth, 
who  leant  against  the  wall  beside  him — straightened 
themselves  with  a  jerk;  while  the  stranger,  who  had 
the  air  of  being  two  or  three  years  older  than  Roger, 
laid  his  hand  on  his  weapon.  A  lanthom  which  stood 
on  the  stone  floor  between  the  three,  and  was  the  only 
other  object  in  the  closet,  cast  its  light  upwards;  which 
had  the  effect  of  distorting  the  men's  features,  and  ex- 
aggerating looks  already  disordered. 

The  Lieutenant,  we  have  said,  was  not  wholly  sur- 
prised. None  the  less  the  elder  of  the  two  young  men 
was  the  first  to  find  his  tongue.  "What  do  you  here?" 
he  cried,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  resentment.  "We 
came  to  be  private  here.     What  do  you  wish,  sir  ?" 

Des  Ageaux  took  one  step  over  the  threshold  and 
bowed  low.  "To  offer  my  apologies,"  he  replied,  with  a 
tinge  of  humour  in  his  tone,  "and  then  to  withdraw. 
To  be  plain,  sir,  I  heard  whispering,  and,  half-roused, 
I  fancied  that  it  might  concern  me.  Forgive  me,  mad- 
emoiselle," he  continued,  directing  an  easy  and  not 
ungraceful  gesture  to  the  shrinking  girl,  who  cowered 
on  the  dark  stairs  as  if  she  wished  they  might  swallow 
her.     "Your  pardon  also.  Monsieur  Charles. " 

"You  know  my  name?"  the  stranger  exclaimed,  with 
a  swift,  perturbed  glance  at  the  others. 

"Your  name  and  no  more,"  des  Ageaux  answered., 
smiling  and  not  a  whit  disturbed.    His  manner  was 


THE  TOWER  CHAMBER.  41 

perfectly  easy.  "I  heard  it  as  I  opened.  But  be  at 
rest,  that  which  is  not  meant  for  me  I  do  not  keep. 
You  will  understand  that  the  hour  was  late,  I  found 
the  window  open,  I  heard  voices — some  suspicion  was 
not  unnatural.  Have  no  fear,  however.  To-morrow  I 
shall  only  have  had  one  dream  the  more." 

"But  dream  or  no  dream,"  the  person  he  had  addressed 
as  Charles  blurted  out,  "if  you  mention  it " 

"I  shall  not  mention  it." 

"To  the  Vicomte  even?" 

"Not  even  to  him!  The  presence  of  mademoiselle's 
brother,"  des  Ageaux  continued,  with  a  keen  glance  at 
Roger,  "were  warrant  for  silence,  had  I  the  right  to 
speak." 

The  girl  started  and  the  hood  of  her  cloak  fell  back. 
With  loosened  hair  and  parted  lips  she  looked  so  pretty 
that  he  was  sorry  he  had  struck  at  her  ever  so  slightly. 
"You  think,  sir,"  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  half-indignant, 
half -awestruck,  "that  this  is  my  lover?" 

His  eyes  passed  from  her  to  the  taller  young  man. 
He  bowed  low.  "I  did,"  he  said,  the  courtesy  of  his 
manner  redoubled.  "Now  I  see  that  he  is  your  brother. 
Forgive  me,  mademoiselle,  I  am  unlucky  this  evening. 
Lest  I  offend  again — and  my  presence  alone  must  be  an 
offence — I  take  my  leave. " 

Charles  stepped  forward.  "Not,"  he  said  somewhat 
peremptorily,  "before  you  have  assured  us  again  of 
your  silence!  Understand  me,  sir,  this  is  no  child's 
play!  Were  my  father  to  hear  of  my  presence,  he 
would  make  my  sister  suffer  for  it.  Were  he  to  dis- 
cover me  here — you  do  not  know  him  yet — it  might 
cost  a  life!" 

"What  can  I  say  more,"  des  Ageaux  replied  with  a 


42  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

little  stiffness,  "than  I  have  said?    Why  should  I  betray 


you 


Cf,} 


"Enough,  sir,  if  you  understand." 

"I  understand  enough!"  And  then,  "If  I  can  do  no 
more  than  be  silent " 

"You  can  do  no  more." 

"I  take  my  leave. ' '  And,  bowing,  with  an  air  of  aloof- 
ness he  stepped  back  and  closed  the  door  on  them. 

When  he  had  done  so  the  three  looked  eagerly  at  one 
another.  But  they  did  not  speak  until  his  footsteps  on 
the  chamber  floor  had  ceased  to  sound.  Then,  "What 
is  this?"  the  elder  brother  muttered,  frowning  slightly  at 
the  younger.  "There  is  something  here  I  do  not  under- 
stand. Who  is  he?  What  is  he?  You  told  me  that 
he  was  some  poor  gentleman  adventuring  alone,  and 
without  servants,  and  staying  here  for  the  night  with  a 
lame  horse  and  an  empty  purse.     But " 

"He  was  not  like  this  at  supper,"  Roger  replied, 
excusing  himself. 

"But  he  has  nothing  of  the  tone  of  the  man  you  de- 
scribed." 

"Not  now,"  Bonne  said.  "But  at  supper  he  was 
different  in  some  way."  And  recalling  how  he  had 
looked  at  her  when  he  thought  that  Charles  was  her 
lover,  she  blushed. 

"He  is  no  poor  man,"  Charles  muttered.  "Did you 
mark  his  ring?" 

"No." 

"May-be  at  supper  it  was  turned  inward,  but  as  he 
stood  there  with  his  hand  on  the  door  post,  the  light  fell 
on  it.  Three  leopards  passant  or  on  a  field  vert!  I  have 
seen  that  coat,  and  more  than  once!" 

"  But  why  should  not  the  poor  gentleman  wear  his 


THE  TOWER  CHAMBER.  43 

coat?"  Bonne  urged,  "Perhaps  it  is  all  that  is  left  of 
his  grandeur. " 

"In  gold  on  green  enamel?"  Charles  asked,  raising  his 
eyebrows.  "Certainly  his  sword  was  of  the  plainest. 
But  I  don't  like  it!  Why  is  he  here?  What  is  he 
doing?  Can  he  be  friend  to  Vlaye,  and  on  his  way  to 
help  him?" 

Abruptly  the  girl  stepped  forward,  and  flinging  an 
arm  round  her  brother's  neck,  pressed  herself  against 
him.  "Give  it  up!  Give  it  up!"  she  murmured. 
"Charles!     Dear  brother,  listen  to  me.     Give  it  up!" 

"It  were  better  you  gave  me  up,"  he  replied  in  a  tone 
between  humour  and  pathos,  as  he  stroked  her  hair. 
"But  you  are  Villeneuve  at  heart.  Bonne " 

"Bonne  by  nature.  Bonne  by  name!"  Roger  muttered, 
caressing  her  with  his  eyes. 

"And  stand  by  those  you  love,  whatever  come  of  it!" 
Charles  continued.  "Would  you  then  have  me  leave 
those" — with  a  grimace  which  she,  having  her  face  on 
his  shoulder,  could  not  see — "whom,  if  I  do  not  love,  I 
have  chosen!  Leave  them  because  danger  threatens? 
Because  Vlaye  gives  the  word?" 

"But  what  can  you  do  against  him?"  she  answered 
in  a  tearful  tone.  "You  say  yourself  that  they  are  but 
a  rabble,  your  Crocans !  Broken  men,  beggars  and  what 
not,  peasants  and  ploughboys,  ill-armed  and  ill-fed! 
What  can  they  do  against  men-at-arms?  Against  Vlaye? 
I  thought  when  I  got  word  to  you  to  come,  in  order  that 
I  might  tell  you  what  he  was  planning — I  thought  that 
you  would  listen  to  me!" 

"And  am  I  not  listening,  little  one?"  he  replied, 
fondling  her  hair. 

"But  you  will  not  be  guided?" 


44  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"That  is  another  thing,"  he  replied  more  soberly. 
"Had  I  known,  it  is  true,  what  I  know  now,  had  I  known 
of  what  sort  they  were  to  whom  I  was  joining  myself, 
I  might  not  have  done  it.  I  might  have  borne  a  little 
longer" — his  tone  grew  bitter — "the  life  we  lead  here! 
I  might  have  borne  a  little  longer  to  rust  and  grow 
boorish,  and  to  stand  for  clown  and  rustic  in  M.  de 
Vlaye's  eyes  when  he  deigns  to  visit  us!  I  might  have 
put  up  a  little  longer  with  the  answer  I  got  when  I 
craved  leave  to  see  the  wars  and  the  world — that  as  my 
fathers  had  made  my  bed  I  must  lie  on  it.  Ay,  and 
more !  If  he — I  will  not  call  him  father — had  spared  me 
his  sneers  only  a  little,  if  he  had  let  a  day  go  by  without 
casting  in  my  face  the  lack  that  was  no  fault  of  mine, 
I  would  have  still  tried  to  bear  it.  But  not  a  day  did 
he  spare  me!    Not  one  day,  as  God  is  my  witness!" 

Her  sorrowful  silence  acknowledged  the  truth  of  his 
words.  At  length,  "But  if  these  folk,"  she  said  timidly, 
"are  of  so  wretched  a  sort,  Charles?" 

"Wretched  they  are,"  he  answered,  "but  their  cause 
is  good.  Better  fall  with  them  than  rise  by  such  deeds 
as  have  driven  them  to  arms.  I  tell  you  that  the  things 
I  have  heard,  as  I  sat  over  their  fires  by  night  in  the 
caves  about  Bourdeilles  where  they  lie,  would  arm  not 
men's  hands  only,  but  women's!  Would  spoil  your 
sleep  of  nights,  and  strong  men's  sleep!  Poor  cottars 
killed  and  hamlets  burned,  in  pure  sport  I  Children  flung 
out  and  women  torn  from  homes,  and  through  a  whole 
country-side  corn  trampled  wantonly,  and  oxen  killed  to 
make  a  meal  for  four !  But  I  cannot  tell  you  what  they 
have  suffered,  for  you  are  a  woman  and  you  could  not 
bear  it!" 

Bonne  forgot  her  fears  for  him.    She  leant  forward — 


THE  TOWER  CHAMBER.  45 

she  had  gone  back  to  her  seat  on  the  stairs — and  clenched 
her  small  hands.  "And  M.  de  Vlaye  it  is,"  she  cried, 
"he  who  has  done  more  than  any  other  to  madden  them, 
who  now  proposes  to  rise  upon  their  fall?  Monsieur  de 
Vlaye  it  is  who,  having  driven  them  to  this,  will  now 
crush  them  and  say  he  does  the  King  service,  and  so  win 
pardon  for  a  thousand  crimes?" 

But  the  light  had  gone  out  in  Charles's  eyes.  "Ay, 
and  win  it  he  will.  So  it  will  go, "  he  said  moodily.  "So 
it  will  happen !  He  has  seen  afar  the  chance  of  securing 
himself,  and  he  will  seize  it,  by  doing  what,  for  the  time, 
no  other  has  means  to  do . " 

"He  who  kindled  the  fire  will  be  rewarded  for  putting 
it  out?" 

"Just  sol" 

"But  can  you  do  nothing  against  him?"  Roger 
muttered. 

"We  may  hold  our  own  for  a  time,  in  the  caves  and 
hills  about  Brantome  perhaps,"  the  elder  brother  an- 
swered. "  But  after  a  while  he  will  starve  us  out.  And 
in  the  open  such  folks  as  we  have,  ill-armed,  ill-found, 
with  scarce  a  leader  older  than  myself,  will  melt  before 
his  pikes  like  smoke  before  the  wind!" 

Roger's  eyes  glistened.  "Not  if  I  were  with  you,"  he 
muttered.  "There  should  be  one  blow  struck  before  he 
rode  over  us!  But" — he  let  his  chin  sink  on  his  breast 
—"what  am  I?" 

"Brave  enough,  I  know,"  Charles  answered,  putting 
his  hand  affectionately  on  the  lad's  shoulder.  "Braver 
than  I  am,  perhaps.  But  it  is  not  the  end,  be  the  end 
what  it  may,  good  lad,  that  weighs  me  down  and  makes 
me  coward.  It  is  the  misery  of  seeing  all  go  wrong 
hour  by  hour  and  day  by  day!    Of  seeing  the  cause 


46  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

with  which  I  must  now  sink  or  swim  mishandled!  Of 
striving  to  put  sense  and  discipUne  into  the  folk  who  are 
either  clowns,  unteachable  by  aught  but  force,  or  a  rabble 
of  worthless  vagrants  drawn  to  us  as  to  any  other  cause 
that  promises  safety  from  the  gallows.  And  yet,  if  I 
were  older  and  had  seen  war  and  handled  men,  I  feel 
that  even  of  this  stuff  I  could  make  a  thing  should 
frighten  Vlaye.  Ay,  and  for  a  time  I  thought  I  could," 
he  continued  gloomily.  "But  they  would  not  be  driven, 
and  short  of  hanging  half  a  dozen,  which  I  dare  not 
attempt,  I  must  be  naught!" 

"Do  you  think,"  Roger  muttered,  "that  if  you  had  me 
beside  you — I  have  strong  arms " 

"God  forbid!"  Charles  answered,  looking  sadly  at 
him.  "Dear  lad,  one  is  enough!  What  would  Bonne 
do  without  you?    It  is  not  your  place  to  go  forth." 

"If  I  were  straight!" 

The  girl  leaned  forward  and  took  his  hand.  "You 
are  straight  for  me,"  she  said  softly.  "Straight  for  me! 
More  precious  than  the  straightest  thing  in  the  world!" 

He  sighed  and  Bonne  echoed  the  sigh.  It  was  the 
first  time  the  three  had  met  since  Charles's  flight;  since, 
fretted  by  inaction  and  stung  beyond  patience  by  the 
gibes  of  the  father — who,  while  he  withheld  the  means 
of  making  a  figure  in  the  world,  did  not  cease  to  sneer 
at  supineness — he  had  taken  a  step  which  had  seemed 
desperate,  and  now  semed  fatal.  For  if  this  Crocan 
rising  were  not  a  Jacquerie  in  name,  if  it  were  not 
stained  as  yet  by  the  excesses  which  made  that  word 
a  terror,  it  was  still  a  peasant-rising.  It  was  still  a 
revolt  of  the  canaille,  of  the  mob;  and  more  indulgent 
fathers  than  the  Vicomte  would  have  disowned  the  son 
who,  by  joining  it,  ranged  himself  against  his  caste. 


THE  TOWER  CHAMBER.  47 

The  younger  man  had  known  that  when  he  took  the 
step ;  yet  he  had  been  content  to  take  it.  The  farther 
it  set  him  from  the  Vicomte  the  better!  But  he  had 
not  known  nor  had  Bonne  guessed  how  hopeless  was 
the  cause  he  was  embracing,  how  bhnd  its  leaders,  how 
shiftless  its  followers,  how  certain  and  disastrous  its  end! 
But  he  knew  now.  He  knew  that,  to  the  attack  which 
M.  de  Vlaye  meditated,  the  mob  of  clods  and  vagrants 
must  fall  an  easy  prey. 

Young  and  high-spirited,  moved  a  little  by  the 
peasants'  wrongs,  and  more  by  his  own,  he  had  done 
this  thing.  He  had  rushed  on  ruin,  made  good  his 
father's  gibes,  played  into  M,  de  Vlaye's  hands — the 
hands  of  the  man  who  had  patronised  him  a  hundred 
times,  and  with  a  sneer  made  sport  of  his  rusticity. 
The  contempt  of  the  man  of  the  world  for  the  raw  boy 
had  sunk  into  the  lad's  soul,  and  he  hated  Vlaye.  To 
drag  Vlaye  down  had  been  one  of  Charles's  day-dreams. 
He  had  pined  for  the  hour  when,  at  the  head  of  the 
peasants  who  were  to  hail  him  as  their  leader,  he  should 
tread  the  hated  scutcheon  under  foot. 

Now  he  saw  that  all  the  triumph  would  be  M.  de 
Vlaye's,  and  that  by  his  bold  venture  he  had  but  added 
a  feather  to  the  hated  plume.  And  Bonne  and  Roger, 
mute  because  their  love  taught  them  when  to  speak  and 
when  to  refrain,  gazed  sadly  at  the  lanthorn.  The 
silence  lasted  a  long  minute,  and  was  broken  in  the  end, 
not  by  their  voices,  but  by  the  distant  creak  of  a  door. 

Bonne  sprang  to  her  feet,  the  colour  gone  from  her 
face.     "Hush!"  she  cried.     "What  was  that?    Listen.'! 

They  listened,  their  hearts  beating.  Presently  Roger, 
his  face  almost  as  bloodless  as  Bonne's,  snatched  up  the 
lanthorn.     "It  is  the  Vicomte!"  he  gasped.     "He  is 


48  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

coining!  Quick,  Charles  1  You  must  go  the  way  you 
came!" 

"But  Bonne?"  his  brother  muttered,  hanging  back. 
"What  is  she  to  do?" 

Roger,  his  hand  on  the  door  of  the  Tower  Chamber, 
stood  aghast.  Charles  might  escape  unseen,  there  w^as 
still  time.  But  Bonne?  If  her  father  found  the  girl 
there?  And  the  stranger  was  in  the  Tower  Room, 
she  could  not  retreat  thither.     What  was  she  to  do? 

The  girl's  wits  found  the  answer.  She  pointed  to  the 
stairs.  "I  will  hide  above,"  she  whispered.  "Do  you 
go!"  It  was  still  of  Charles  she  thought.  "Do  you 
go!"  But  the  terror  in  her  eyes — she  feared  her  father 
as  she  feared  no  one  else  in  the  world — WTung  the 
brothers'  hearts. 

Charles  hesitated.  "The  door  at  the  top?"  he  bab- 
bled.    It  is  locked,  I  fear!" 

"He  will  not  go  up!"  she  whispered.  "And  while 
he  is  in  the  Tower  Room  I  can  escape. " 

She  vanished  as  she  spoke,  m  the  darkness  of  the 
narrow  winding  shaft — and  it  was  time  she  did.  The 
Vicomte  was  scarce  three  paces  from  the  outer  door 
when  the  two  who  were  left  sprang  into  the  Tower 
Chamber. 

The  Lieutenant  was  on  his  feet  by  the  side  of  his  bed. 
He  had  not  gone  to  sleep,  and  he  caught  their  alarm, 
he  had  heard  the  last  hurried  whispers,  he  had  guessed 
their  danger.  He  was  not  surprised  when  Charles, 
without  a  word,  crossed  the  floor  in  a  couple  of  bounds, 
flung  himself  recklessly  over  the  sill  of  the  window,  clung 
an  instant  by  one  hand,  then  disappeared.  A  moment 
the  shoot  of  ivy  that  grew  into  the  chamber  jerked  vio- 
lently, the  next  the  door  was  flung  wide  open,  and  the 


THE  TOWER  CHAMBER.  49 

Vicomte,  a  gaunt  figure  bearing  a  sword  in  one  hand,  a 
lanthom  in  the  other,  stood  on  the  threshold.  The 
light  of  the  lanthorn  which  he  held  above  his  head  that 
he  might  detect  what  was  before  him,  obscured  his  face. 
But  the  weapon  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  proclaimed 
the  fury  of  his  suspicions.  "Who  is  here?"  he  cried. 
"Who  is  here?"  And  again,  as  if  in  his  rage  he  could 
frame  no  other  words,  "Who  is  here,  I  say?    Speak!" 

Roger,  on  his  feet,  the  tell-tale  lanthorn  in  his  hand, 
could  not  force  a  word.  He  stood  speechless,  motion- 
less, self-convicted;  and  had  all  lain  with  him,  all  had 
been  known.  Fortunately  des  Ageaux  took  on  him- 
self to  answer. 

"  Who  is  here,  sir?"  he  said  in  a  voice  a  tone  louder 
and  a  shade  easier  than  was  natural.  "Tlie  devil,  I 
think!     For  I  swear  no  one  else  could  climb  this  wall!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"And  climb  it,"  des  Ageaux  persisted,  disregarding  the 
question,  "very  nearly  to  this  sill!  I  heard  him  below 
five  minutes  ago.  And  if  I  had  not  been  fool  enough 
to  rouse  your  son  and  bid  him  light  we  had  had  him  safe 
by  now  on  this  floor!" 

The  Vicomte  glared.  The  story  was  glib,  well  told, 
animated;  but  he  doubted  it.  He  knew  what  he  had 
expected  to  find.  "You  lit  the  lanthorn?"  he  snarled. 
"When?" 

"Two  minutes  back — it  might  be  more,"  des  Ageaux 
replied.  "Now  he  is  clean  gone.  Clean  gone,  I  fear," 
he  added  as  he  stepped  into  the  embrasure  of  the  window 
and  leant  forward  cautiously,  as  if  he  thought  a  shot 
from  below  a  thing  not  impossible.  "I  hear  nothing,  at 
any  rate." 

The  Vicomte,  struggling  with  senile  rage,  stared  about 


50  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

him.  "But  I  saw  a  light!"  he  cried.  "In  the  outer 
room!" 

"The  outer  room!" 

"Under  the  door." 

"Shone  under  both  doors,  I  suppose,"  des  Ageaux 
rephed,  still  intent  to  all  appearance  on  the  dark  void 
outside.  "I'll  answer  for  it,"  he  added  carelessly  as  he 
turned,  "that  he  did  not  go  out  by  the  door." 

"He  will  not  go  out  now,"  the  Vicomte  retorted  with 
grim  suspicion,  "for  I  have  locked  the  outer  door." 
He  showed  the  key  hung  on  a  finger  of  the  hand  which 
held  the  lanthorn. 

The  sight  was  too  much  for  Roger ;  he  understood  at 
once  that  it  cut  off  his  sister's  retreat.  A  sound  between 
a  groan  and  an  exclamation  broke  from  him. 

The  Vicomte  lifted  the  lanthorn  to  his  face.  "  What 
now,  booby?"  he  said.  "Who  has  hurt  you?"  And, 
seeing  what  he  saw,  he  cursed  the  lad  for  a  coward. 

"I  did  not  feel  over  brave  myself  five  minutes  ago," 
the  Lieutenant  remarked. 

The  Vicomte  turned  on  him  as  if  he  would  curse  him 
also.  But,  meeting  his  eyes,  he  thought  better  of  it,  and 
swallowed  the  rage  he  longed  to  vent.  He  stared  about 
him  a  minute  or  more,  stalking  here  and  there  offensively, 
and  trying  to  detect  something  on  which  to  fasten.  But 
he  found  nothing,  and,  having  flung  the  light  of  his  lan- 
thorn once  more  around  the  room,  he  »tood  an  instant, 
then,  turning,  went  sharply — as  if  his  suspicions  had  now 
a  new  direction — towards  the  door. 

"Good-night!"  he  muttered  churlishly. 

"Good-night!"  the  Lieutenant  answered,  but  in  the 
act  of  speaking  he  met  the  look  of  horror  in  Roger's 
eyes,  remembered  and  understood.     "She  is  still  there," 


THE  TOWER  CHAMBER.  51 

the  lad's  white  Hps  spelled  out,  as  they  listened  to  the 
grating  noise  of  the  key  in  the  lock.  "She  could  not 
escape.     And  he  suspects.     He  is  going  to  her  room." 

Des  Ageaux  stared  a  moment  nonplussed.  The 
matter  was  nothing  to  him,  nothing,  yet  his  face  faintly 
mirrored  the  youth's  consternation.  Then,  in  a  stride, 
he  was  at  his  bedside.  He  seized  one  of  the  horse-pistols 
which  lay  beside  his  pillow,  and,  before  the  lad  understood 
his  purpose,  he  levelled  it  at  the  open  window  and  fired 
into  the  night. 

The  echoes  of  the  report  had  not  ceased  to  roll  hollowly 
through  the  Tower  before  the  door  flew  wide  again,  and 
the  Vicomte  reappeared,  his  eyes  glittering,  his  weapon 
shaking  in  his  excitement.  "What  is  it?  "  he  cried,  for  at 
first  he  could  not  see,  the  smoke  obscured  the  room. 
"What  is  it?    What  is  it?" 

"A  miss,  I  fear,"  des  Ageaux  answered  coolly.  He 
stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  window,  the  smoking 
weapon  in  his  hand.  "I  fear,  a  miss — I  had  a  notion  all 
the  time  that  he  was  in  the  ivy  outside,  and  when  he 
poked  up  his  head " 

' '  His  head ? ' '  the  Vicomte  exclaimed.  He  was  shaking 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Well,  it  looked  like  his  head,"  des  Ageaux  replied 
more  doubtfully.  He  moved  a  step  nearer  to  the  window. 
"But  I  could  not  swear  to  it.  It  might  have  been  an 
owl!" 

"An  owl?"  the  Vicomte  answered  in  an  unsteady 
tone.     "You  fired  at  an  owl?" 

"Whatever  it  was  I  missed  it,"  des  Ageaux  answered 
with  decision,  and  in  a  somewhat  louder  tone.  "If  you 
will  step  up  here — but  I  fear  you  are  not  well,  M.  le 
Vicomte?" 


52  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

He  spoke  truly,  the  Vicomte  was  not  well.  He  had 
had  a  shock.  Cast  off  his  son  as  he  might,  hate  him  as 
he  might — and  hate  him  he  did,  as  one  who  had  turned 
against  him  and  brought  dishonour  on  his  house — that 
shot  in  the  night  had  shaken  him.  He  leant  against  the 
wall,  his  hps  white,  his  breath  coming  quickly.  And  a 
minute  or  more  elapsed  before  he  recovered  himself  and 
stood  upright. 

He  kept  his  eyes  averted  from  des  Ageaux,  He 
turned  instead  to  Roger.  Whether  he  feared  for  himself 
and  would  not  be  alone,  or  he  suspected  some  complicity 
between  the  two,  he  signed  to  the  lad  to  take  up  the 
lanthorn  and  go  before  him.  And,  moving  stiffly  and 
unsteadily  across  the  floor,  he  got  himself  in  silence  to 
the  door.  With  something  between  a  bow  and  a  glance 
— it  was  clear  that  he  could  not  trust  his  tongue — he  was 
out  of  the  room. 

The  Lieutenant  sat  on  his  bed  for  some  time,  expecting 
Roger  to  return.  But  the  lad  did  not  appear,  and  after 
an  interval  des  Ageaux  took  on  himself  to  search  the 
staircase.  It  was  untenanted.  The  girl,  using  the 
chance  he  had  afforded  her,  had  escaped. 


CHAPTER  III. 

STILL   WATERS   TROUBLED. 

Had  Bonne  de  Villeneuve,  a  day  earlier,  paid  a  visit 
much  in  fashion  at  that  time,  and  consulted  the  "dark 
man"  who,  in  an  upper  room  on  the  wall  of  Angouleme, 
followed  the  stars  and  cast  horoscopes,  and  was  reputed 
to  have  foretold  the  death  of  the  first  Duke  of  Joyeuse 
as  that  nobleman  passed  southwards  to  the  field  of 
Coutras,  she  might  have  put  faith  in  such  of  the  events 
of  the  night  as  the  magic  crystal  showed  her;  until  it 
came  to  mirror,  faint  as  an  evening  mist  beside  the  river, 
her  thoughts  after  the  event.  Then,  had  it  foretold  that, 
as  she  lay  quaking  in  her  bed,  she  would  be  thinking 
neither  of  the  brother,  whose  desperate  venture  wrung  her 
heart,  nor  of  Roger,  her  dearer  self,  but  of  a  stranger — a 
stranger,  whose  name  she  had  not  kno'^oi  six  hours, 
and  of  whose  past  she  knew  nothing,  she  would  have 
paused,  refusing  credence.  She  would  have  smiled  at 
the  phantasm  of  the  impossible. 

Yet  so  it  was.  Into  the  quiet  pool  of  her  maiden 
heart  had  fallen  in  an  hour  the  stone  that  sooner  or  later 
troubles  the  sweet  waters.  As  she  lay  thinking  with 
wide-open  eyes,  her  mind,  which  should  have  been  em- 
ployed with  her  brother's  peril,  or  her  own  escape,  or 
her  father's  rage,  was  busy  with  the  stranger  who  had 

53 


54  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

dropped  so  suddenly  into  her  life,  and  had  begun  on  the 
instant  to  play  a  sovereign  part.  She  recalled  his  aspect 
as  he  looked  in  on  them,  cool  and  confident,  at  their  mid- 
night conference.  She  heard  his  tone  as  he  baffled  her 
father's  questions  with  cunning  answers.  She  mar- 
velled at  the  wit  that  in  the  last  pinch  had  saved  her 
from  discovery.  He  seemed  to  her  a  man  of  the  world 
such  as  had  not  hitherto  come  within  the  range  of  her 
experience.  Was  he  also  the  perfect  knight  of  whom  she 
had  not  been  woman  if  she  had  not  dreamed? 

What,  she  wondered,  must  his  life  have  been,  who,  cast 
among  strange  surroundings,  bore  himself  so  masterfully, 
and  so  shrewdly  took  his  part!  What  chances  he  must 
have  seen,  what  dangers  run,  how  many  men,  how  many 
cities  visited!  He  might  have  known  the  Court,  that 
strange  melange  of  splendour  and  wickedness,  and 
mystery  and  valour.  He  might  have  seen  the  King, 
shrewdest  of  captains,  bravest  of  princes ;  he  might  have 
encountered  eye  to  eye  men  whose  names  were  history. 
He  came  out  of  the  great  outer  world  of  which  she  had 
visions,  and  already  she  was  prepared  to  invest  him  with 
wonderful  quahties.  Her  curiosity  once  engaged,  she 
constructed  for  him  first  one  life  and  then  another,  and 
then  yet  another — all  on  the  same  foundation,  the  one 
fact  which  he  had  told  them,  that  he  was  a  poor  gentle- 
man of  Brittany.  She  considered  his  ring,  and  the 
shape  of  his  clothes,  and  his  manner  of  eating,  which 
she  found  more  delicate  than  her  brothers';  and  she 
fancied,  but  she  told  herself  that  she  was  foolish  to  think 
it,  that  she  detected  under  his  frigid  bearing  a  habit 
of  command  that  duller  eyes  failed  to  discern. 

She  was  ashamed  at  last  of  the  persistence  with  which 
her  thoughts  ran  on  him,  and  she  tried  to  think  of  other 


STILL  WATERS  TROUBLED.  55 

things,  and  so  thought  of  him  again,  and,  awaking  to  the 
fact,  smiled.  But  without  blushing;  partly  because, 
whatever  he  was,  he  stood  a  great  way  from  her,  and 
partly  because  it  was  only  her  fancy  that  was  touched, 
and  not  her  heart;  and  partly  again  because  she  knew 
that  he  would  be  gone  by  mid-day,  and  could  by  no 
possibility  form  part  of  her  life.  Nevertheless,  it  was 
not  until  her  time  for  rising  came  that  anxiety  as  to  her 
brother's  safety  and  her  father's  anger  eclipsed  him. 
Then,  uncertain  how  much  the  Vicomte  knew,  how  near 
the  truth  he  guessed,  she  forgot  her  hero,  and  thought 
exclusively  of  her  father's  resentment. 

She  might  have  spared  her  fears.  The  Vicomte  was 
a  sour  and  em^bittered  man,  but  neither  by  nature  nor 
habit  a  violent  one.  Rage  had  for  an  hour  rendered 
him  capable  of  the  worst,  capable  of  the  murder  of  his  son 
if,  having  an  arm  in  his  hand,  he  had  met  him,  capable  of 
the  expulsion  of  his  daughter  from  his  house.  But  the 
fit  was  not  natural  to  him;  it  was  not  so  that  he  avenged 
the  wrongs  which  the  world  had  heaped  upon  him — since 
Coutras.  He  fell  back  easily  and  at  once  into  the  black 
cynical  mood  that  was  his  own.  He  was  too  old  and 
weak,  he  had  too  long  brooded  in  inaction,  he  had  too 
long  wreaked  his  vengeance  on  the  feeble  to  take  strong 
measures  now,  whatever  happened  to  him. 

But  some  hours  elapsed  before  Bonne  knew  this,  or 
how  things  would  be.  It  was  not  her  father's  custom  to 
descend  before  noon,  for  with  his  straitened  means  and 
shrunken  establishment  he  went  little  abroad,  and  he 
would  have  died  rather  than  stoop  to  the  rustic  tasks 
which  Roger  pursued,  and  of  which  Bonne's  small  brown 
hands  were  not  ignorant.  She  had  not  seen  him  when, 
an  hour  before  noon,  she  repaired  to  a  seat  in  the  most 


56  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

remote  corner  of  the  garden,  taking  with  her  some  house- 
hold work  on  which  she  was  engaged. 

The  garden  of  the  chateau  of  Villeneuve— the  garden 
proper  that  is,  for  the  dry  moat  which  divided  the  house 
from  the  courtyard  was  planted  with  pot-herbs  and  cab- 
bages—formed a  square,  having  for  its  one  side  the 
length  of  the  house.  It  lay  along  the  face  of  the  build- 
ing remote  from  the  courtyard,  and  was  only  accessible 
through  it.  Its  level,  raised  by  art  or  nature,  stood 
more  than  a  man's  height  above  the  surrounding  country; 
of  which,  for  this  reason,  it  afforded  a  pleasant  and  airy 
prospect.  The  wall  which  surrounded  and  buttressed 
it  stood  on  the  inner  side  no  more  than  three  feet  high,  but 
rose  on  the  outer  from  a  moat,  the  continuation  of  that 
which  has  just  been  mentioned. 

The  pleasaunce  thus  secured  on  all  sides  from  intru- 
sion consisted  first  of  a  paved  walk  which  ran  under  the 
windows  of  the  chateau,  and  was  boarded  by  a  row  of 
ancient  mulberry-trees ;  secondly,  beyond  this,  of  a  strip 
of  garden  ground  planted  with  gooseberry-bushes  and 
fruit-trees,  and  bisected  by  a  narrow  walk  which  led 
from  the  house  to  a  second  terrace  formed  on  the  outer 
wall.  This  latter  terrace  lay  open  towards  the  country 
and  at  either  end,  but  was  hidden  from  the  prying  eyes 
of  the  house  by  a  line  of  elms,  poled  and  cut  espalier 
fashion.  It  offered  at  either  extremity  the  accommoda- 
tion of  a  lichen-covered  stone  bench  which  tempted 
the  old  to  repose  and  the  young  to  reverie.  The  east 
bench  enabled  a  person  seated  sideways  on  it — and  so 
many  had  thus  sat  that  the  wall  was  hollowed  by  their 
elbows — to  look  over  the  willow-edged  river  and  the 
tract  of  lush  meadows  which  its  loop  enclosed.  The 
western  seat  had  not  this  poetic  advantage,  but  by  way 


STILL  WATERS  TROUBLED.  57 

of  compensation  afforded  to  sharp  eyes  a  glimpse  of  the 
track — road  it  could  not  be  called — which  after  passing 
the  chateau  wound  through  the  forest  on  its  course  to 
Vlaye  and  the  south. 

From  childhood  the  seat  facing  the  river  had  been 
Bonne's  favourite  refuge.  Before  she  could  walk  she 
had  played  games  in  the  dust  beneath  it.  She  had 
carried  to  it  her  small  sorrows  and  her  small  joys,  her 
fits  of  nursery  passion,  her  moods  as  she  grew  older. 
She  had  nursed  dolls  on  it,  and  fancies,  dreamed  dreams 
and  built  castles;  and  in  a  not  unhappy,  thought  neg- 
lected girlhood,  it  had  stood  for  that  sweet  and  secret 
retreat,  the  bower  of  the  budding  life,  which  remains 
holy  in  the  memory  of  worn  men  and  women.  The  other 
bench,  which  commanded  a  peep  of  the  road,  had 
been  more  to  her  elder  sister's  taste ;  nor  was  the  choice 
without  a  certain  bearing  on  the  character  of  each. 

This  morning,  she  had  not  been  five  minutes  at  work 
before  she  heard  footsteps  on  the  garden  path.  The  sun, 
near  its  highest,  had  driven  her  to  the  inner  end  of  the 
seat,  where  the  elm  in  summer  leaf  straggled  widely  over 
it,  growing  low,  as  elms  will.  She  knew  that  whoever 
came  she  would  see  before  she  was  seen. 

It  turned  out  as  she  expected.  M.  des  Ageaux 
lounged  onto  the  terrace,  and  shading  his  eyes  from 
the  sun's  rays,  gazed  on  the  prospect.  She  judged  that 
he  thought  himself  alone,  for  he  took  a  short  turn  this 
way  and  that.  Then,  after  a  casual  glance  at  the  empty 
seats — empty  as  he  doubtless  judged,  though  she  from 
her  arbour  of  leaves  could  watch  his  every  movement — 
he  wheeled  about,  and,  facing  the  chateau,  seemed  to 
satisfy  himself  that  the  wall  of  pollard  elms  sheltered 
him  from  sight. 


58  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

His  next  proceeding  was  mysterious.  He  drew  from 
his  breast  a  packet,  of  parchment  or  paper  unfolded 
it,  and  laid  it  flat  on  the  wall  before  him.  Then  he 
stooped  and  after  poring  over  it,  glanced  at  the  view, 
referred  again  to  the  paper,  then  again  to  the  lie  of  the 
country,  and  the  course  of  the  river  which  flowed  on 
his  left.  Finally  he  measured  off  a  distance  on  the  map. 
For  a  map  it  was,  beyond  doubt. 

A  shadow  fell  on  her  as  she  watched  him.  Nor  did 
his  next  movement  dispel  the  feeling.  Folding  up  the 
map  he  replaced  it  in  his  breast,  and  leaning  over  the 
wall  he  scrutinised  the  outer  surface  of  the  brickwork. 
Apparently  he  did  not  discover  what  he  sought,  for  he 
raised  himself  again,  and  with  eyes  bent  on  the  tangle 
of  nettles  and  rough  herbage  that  clothed  the  bottom 
of  the  moat,  he  moved  slowly  along  the  terrace  towards 
her.  He  reached,  without  seeing  her,  the  seat  on  which 
she  sat,  knelt  on  it  with  one  knee,  and  leaning  far  over 
the  moat,  allowed  a  low  laugh  to  escape  him. 

She  fought  the  faint  suspicion  that,  unwelcome,  as- 
serted itself.  He  had  behaved  so  honourably,  so  reti- 
cently, in  all  that  had  happened  that  she  was  determined 
not  to  believe  aught  to  his  discredit.  But  her  folly,  if 
foolish  she  was,  must  not  imperil  another.  She  made  a 
mental  note  that  there  was  one  thing  she  must  not  tell 
him.  Very  quickly  that  reflection  passed  through  her 
brain.     And  then — 

"Why  do  you  laugh?"  she  said. 

He  wheeled  about  so  sharply  that  in  another  mood 
she  must  have  laughed,  so  much  she  had  the  advantage 
of  him.  For  an  instant  he  was  so  taken  aback  that  he 
did  not  speak.  Then,  "Why  did  you  startle  me?"  he 
asked,  his  eyes  smiling. 


STILL  WATERS  TROUBLED.  59 

"Because — yes,  my  brother  came  in  that  way." 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered;  "but  not  why  you  startled 
me,  mademoiselle,  a  minute  ago." 

"Nor  I,"  she  retorted,  smiling  faintly,  "why  you 
were  so  inquisitive,  M.  des  Voeux?" 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  that,"  he  said.  He  seated 
himself  on  the  bench  so  as  to  face  her,  and  dofhng  his 
hat,  held  it  between  liis  face  and  the  sun.  He  was  not, 
we  know,  very  amenable  to  the  charms  of  women,  and 
he  saw  in  her  no  more  than  a  girl  of  rustic  breeding, 
comely  and  gentle,  and  something  commonplace,  but  a 
good  sister  whose  aid  with  her  brother  he  needed.  "I 
am  going  to  tell  you,"  he  said;  "because  I  am  anxious 
to  meet  your  brother  again  and  to  talk  with  him. " 

She  continued  to  meet  his  eyes,  but  her  own  were 
clouded.  "On  what  subject,"  she  asked,  "if  I  am  not 
too  curious?" 

"TheCrocans." 

On  her  guard  as  she  was,  the  word  put  her  out  of 
countenance.  She  could  not  hide,  and  after  one  half- 
hearted attempt  did  not  try  to  hide,  her  dismay.  "The 
Crocans?"  she  said.  "But  why  do  you  come  to  me?" 
her  colour  coming  and  going.  "What  have  we  to  do 
with  them,  if  you  please?    Or  my  brother?" 

"He  has  been  banished  from  his  home  for  some  of- 
fence, ' '  the  Lieutenant  answered  quietly.  "  Your  father 
forbids  the  mention  of  the  name  Crocans.  It  is  reason- 
able to  infer  that  the  offence  is  connected  with  them,  and, 
in  a  word,  that  your  brother  has  done  what  any  young 
man  with  generous  instincts  and  a  love  of  adventure 
might  do.  He  has  joined  them.  I  do  not  blame 
him." 

"You  do  not  blame  him?"  she  murmured.     Never 


60  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

had  she  heard  such  words  of  the  Crocans — except  from 
her  brother.     "You  mean  that?" 

''I  say  it  and  mean  it,"  the  Lieutenant  repHed.  But 
he  spoke  without  emotion,  emotion  was  not  his  forte. 
"  Nor  am  I  alone, "  he  went  on,  "in  holding  such  opinions. 
But  the  point,  mademoiselle,  is  this.  I  wish  to  find  a 
means  of  communicating  with  them,  and  he  can  and 
probably  will  be  willing  to  aid  me.  For  certain,  if  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst,  I  can  aid  him." 

Bonne's  heart  beat  rapidly.  She  did  not — she  told 
herself  that  she  did  not  distrust  him.  Had  it  been  her 
own  secret  he  was  seeking  she  would  have  delivered  it  to 
him  freely.  But  the  manner  in  which  he  had  borne 
himself  while  he  thought  himself  alone,  the  possession  of 
the  map,  and  the  shrewdness  with  which  he  had  traced 
her  brother's  movement  and  surprised  a  secret  that  was 
still  a  secret  from  the  household,  frightened  her.  And 
her  very  inexperience  made  her  pause. 

"But  first,  I  take  it,  you  need  his  aid?"  she  murmured. 

"I  wish  to  speak  with  him." 

"Have  you  seen  my  father?" 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  bent  a  little  nearer.  "Do 
you  mean,  mademoiselle " 

"I  mean  only,"  she  said  gently,  "that  if  you  express 
to  him  the  views  on  the  Crocans  which  you  have  just 
expressed  to  me,  your  opportunities  of  seeing  my  brother 
will  be  scant." 

He  laughed.  "I  have  not  opened  them  to  him,"  he 
said.  "I  have  seen  him,  and  whether  he  thinks  that  he 
was  a  little  more  exigent  last  night  than  the  danger  re- 
quired, or  he  desires  to  prove  to  me  that  midnight  alarms 
are  not  the  rule  at  Villeneuve,  he  has  not  given  me  notice 
to  go.     His  invitation  to  remain  is  not,  perhaps,"  he 


STILL  WATERS  TROUBLED.  61 

smiled  slightly,  "of  the  warmest.    But  if  you,  made- 
moiselle, will  second  it " 

She  muttered — not  without  a  blush — that  it  would 
give  her  pleasure.  And  he  proceeded,  "Then  no  diffi- 
culty on  that  point  will  arise. " 

She  stooped  lower  over  her  work.  What  was  she  to 
do?  He  wanted  that  which  she  had  decided  she  must 
not  give  him.     Just  thatl    What  was  she  to  do? 

She  was  so  long  in  answering,  that  he  dubbed  her 
awkward  and  mannerless.  And  thought  it  a  pity,  too; 
for  she  was  a  staunch  sister,  and  had  shown  herself  re- 
sourceful; and  in  repose  her  face,  though  brown  and 
simburnt,  was  not  without  grace.  He  came  to  the 
point.  "May  I  count  on  you  for  this?"  he  asked 
bluntly. 

"For— what?" 

"That  as  soon  as  you  can  you  will  bring  me  face  to 
face  with  your  brother?" 

She  looked  up  and  met  his  gaze.  "As  soon  as  I  think 
it  safe  to  do  so, "  she  said,  "  I  will.  You  may  depend  on 
me." 

He  had  not  divined  her  doubt,  nor  did  he  discern  her 
quibble.  Still,  "  Could  I  not  go  to  him  to-day?"  he  said. 
"If  he  is  still  in  the  neighbourhood?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  do  not  know  where  he  is," 
she  answered,  glad  that  she  could  say  so  much  with 
truth.  "But  if  he  show  himself,  and  it  be  safe,  I  will 
let  you  know.    Roger " 

"Ha!    To  be  sure,  Roger  may  know?" 

She  smiled .  ' '  Roger  and  I  are  one , ' '  she  said .  "  You 
must  not  expect  to  get  from  him  what  I  do  not  give." 
She  said  it  naively,  with  just  so  much  of  a  smile  as  showed 
her  at  her  best,  and  he  hastened  to  say  that  he  left  him- 


62  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

seK  in  her  hands.  She  blushed  through  her  sunburn  at 
that,  but  clung  to  her  quibble,  telHng  herself  that  this 
was  a  stranger,  the  other  a  brother,  and  that  if  she 
destroyed  Charles  she  could  never  forgive  herself. 

He  saw  that  she  was  disturbed,  and  he  changed 
the  subject.  "You  have  always  lived  here?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "but  I  can  remember  when 
things  were  different  with  us.  We  were  not  always  so 
broken.  Before  Coutras — but, "  with  a  faint  smile,  "  you 
have  heard  my  father  on  that,  and  will  not  wish  to  hear 
me." 

''The  Vicomte  was  present  at  the  battle?" 

"Yes,  he  was  in  the  centre  of  the  Catholic  army  with 
the  Duke  of  Joyeuse.  He  escaped  with  his  life.  But 
we  lay  in  the  path  of  the  pursuit  after  the  flight,  and 
they  sacked  the  house,  and  burned  the  hamlet  by  the 
ford — the  one  you  passed — and  the  two  farms  in  the 
bend  of  the  river — the  two  behind  you.  They  swept  off 
every  four-legged  thing,  every  horse,  and  cow,  and  sheep, 
and  left  us  bare.  One  of  the  servants  who  resisted  was 
killed,  and — and  my  mother  died  of  the  shock. " 

She  broke  off  with  an  uncontrollable  shiver.  She  was 
silent.  After  a  pause,  "Perhaps  you  were  at  Coutras, 
M.  des  Voeux?"  she  said,  looking  up. 

"I  was  not  of  the  party  who  sacked  your  house,"  he 
answered  gravely. 

She  knew  then  that  he  had  fought  on  the  other  side; 
and  she  admired  him  for  the  tact  with  which  he  made  it 
known  to  her.  He  was  a  soldier  then.  She  wondered, 
as  she  bent  over  her  work,  if  he  had  fought  elsewhere, 
and  under  whom,  and  with  what  success.  Had  he 
prospered  or  sunk?    He  called  himself  a  poor  gentleman 


STILL  WATERS  TROUBLED.  63 

of  Brittany,  but  that  might  have  been  his  origin  only, 
he  might  be  something  more  now. 

In  the  earnestness  of  her  thoughts  she  turned  her  eyes 
on  his  ring,  and  she  blushed  brightly  when  with  a  quick, 
almost  rude  movement  he  hid  his  hand.  "I  beg  your 
pardon ! "  she  murmured.     "  I  was  not  thinking. ' ' 

"It  is  I  should  beg  yours,"  he  said  quietly.  "It  is 
only  that  I  do  not  want  you  to  come  to  a  false  con- 
clusion. This  ring — in  a  word  I  wear  it,  but  the  arms 
are  not  mine.    That  is  all." 

"Does  that  apply  also,"  she  asked,  looking  at  him 
ingenuously,  "to  the  pistols  you  carry,  M.  des  Voeux? 
Or  should  I  address  you — for  I  saw  last  evening  that 
they  bore  a  duke's  coronet — as  your  Grace?" 

He  laughed  gaily.  "They  are  mine,  but  I  am  not  a 
duke,  "he  said. 

"Nor  are  you  M.  des  Voeux?" 

Her  acuteness  surprised  him.  "I  am  afraid,  made- 
moiselle," he  said,  "that  you  have  a  mind  to  exalt  me 
into  a  hero  of  romance — whether  I  will  or  no." 

She  bent  over  her  work  to  hide  her  face.  "A  duke 
gave  them  to  you,  I  suppose?"  she  said. 

"That  is  so,"  he  replied  sedately. 

"Did  you  save  his  life?" 

"I  did  not." 

"I  have  heard,"  she  returned,  looking  up  thought- 
fully, "that  at  Coutras  a  gentleman  on  the  other  side 
strove  hard  to  save  the  Duke  of  Joyeuse's  life,  and 
did  not  desist  until  he  was  struck  down  by  his  own  men. " 

"He  looked  to  make  his  account  by  him,  no  doubt," 
the  Lieutenant  answered  coldly.  "Perhaps,"  with  a 
scarcely  perceptible  bitterness,  "the  Duke,  had  he  lived, 
would  have  given  him — a  pair  of  pistols!" 


64  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"That  were  a  small  return,"  she  said  indignantly, 
"for  such  a  service!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  And  to  change  the  sub- 
ject— 

"What  are  the  grey  ruins,"  he  asked,  "on  the  edge 
of  the  wood?" 

"They  are  part  of  the  old  Abbey,"  she  answered 
without  looking  up,  "afterwards  removed  to  Vlaye,  of 
which  my  sister  is  Abbess.  There  was  a  time,  I  believe, 
when  the  convent  stood  so  close  to  the  house  that  it 
was  well-nigh  one  with  it.  There  was  some  disorder, 
I  believe,  and  the  Diocesan  obtained  leave  to  have  it 
moved,  and  it  was  planted  on  lands  that  belonged  to 
us  at  that  time." 

"Near  Vlaye?" 

"Within  half  a  league  of  it." 

"Your  sister,  then,  is  acquainted  with  the  Captain  of 
Vlaye?" 

She  did  not  look  up .     "  Yes , ' '  she  said . 

"But  you  and  your  brothers?" 

"We  know  him  and  hate  him — only  less  than  we  fear 
him!"  She  regretted  her  vehemence  the  moment  she 
had  spoken. 

But  he  merely  nodded.  "  So  do  the  Crocans,  I  fancy, ' ' 
he  said.  "It  is  rumoured  that  he  is  preparing  something 
against  them." 

"You  know  that?"  she  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"Without  being  omniscient,"  he  answered  smihng. 
"I  heard  it  in  Barbesieux.  It  was  that,  perhaps,"  he 
continued  shrewdly,  "which  you  v/ished  to  tell  your 
brother  yesterday." 

On  that  she  was  near  confessing  all  to  him  and  telling 
him,  in  spite  of  her  resolutions,  where  on  the  next  day 


STILL  WATERS  TROUBLED.  65 

he  could  find  her  brother.  But  she  clung  to  her  deci- 
sion, and  a  minute  later  he  rose  and  moved  away  in 
the  direction  of  the  house. 

When  they  met  at  table  the  mystery  of  the  Vicomte's 
sudden  impulse  to  hospitality,  which  was  something  of 
a  puzzle  to  her,  began  to  clear. 

It  had  its  origin  in  nothing  more  substantial  than  his 
vanity;  which  was  tickled  by  the  opportunity  of  talk- 
ing to  a  man  who,  with  some  pretensions  to  gentility, 
could  be  patronised.  A  little,  too,  he  thought  of  the 
figure  he  had  made  the  night  before.  It  was  possible 
that  the  stranger  had  been  unfavourably  impressed. 
That  impression  the  Vicomte  thought  he  must  remove, 
and  to  that  end  he  laboured,  after  his  manner,  to  be 
courteous  to  his  guest.  But  as  his  talk  consisted,  and 
had  long  consisted,  of  little  but  sneers  and  gibes  at  the 
companions  of  his  fallen  fortunes,  his  civility  found  its 
only  vent  in  this  direction. 

Des  Ageaux  indeed  would  gladly  have  had  less  of  his 
civility.  More  than  once — though  he  was  not  fastidious 
— his  cheek  coloured  with  shame,  and  willingly  would 
he,  had  that  been  all,  have  told  the  Vicomte  what  he 
thought  of  his  witticisms.  But  he  had  his  cards  sorted, 
his  course  arranged.  Circumstances  had  played  for  him 
in  the  dangerous  game  on  which  he  was  embarked,  and 
he  would  have  been  unworldly  indeed  had  he  been  will- 
ing to  cast  away,  for  a  point  of  feeling — he  who  was  no 
knight-errant — ^the  advantages  he  had  gained. 

Not  that  he  did  not  feel  strongly  for  the  two  whose 
affection  for  one  another  touched  him.  Roger's  de- 
formity appealed  to  him,  for  he  fancied  that  he  de- 
tected in  the  lad  a  spirit  which  those  who  knew  him 
better,  but  knew  only  his  gentler  side,  did  not  suspect. 


66  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

And  the  girl  who  had  grown  from  child  to  woman  in 
the  rustic  stillness  of  this  moated  house — ^that  once  had 
rung  with  the  tread  of  armed  heels  and  been  gay  with 
festive  robes  and  tourneys,  but  now  was  sinking  fast 
into  a  lonely  farmstead — she  too  awakened  some  in- 
terest in  the  man  of  the  world,  who  smiled  to  find  him- 
self embedded  for  the  time  in  a  life  so  alien  from  his 
e very-day  experiences.  Concern  he  felt  for  the  one  and 
the  other;  but  such  concern  as  weighed  light  in  the 
balance  against  the  interests  he  held  in  his  hands,  or 
even  against  his  o\\ti  selfish  interest. 

It  soon  appeared  that  the  Vicomte  had  another  motive 
for  hospitahty,  in  the  desire  to  dazzle  the  stranger  by 
the  splendours  of  his  eldest  daughter,  on  whom  he  con- 
tinued to  harp.  "There  is  still  one  of  us,"  he  said  with 
senile  vanity — "I  doubt  if,  from  the  specimens  you  have 
seen,  you  will  believe  it — who  is  not  entirely  as  God  made 
her!  Thank  the  Lord  for  that!  Who  is  neither  clod 
nor  clout,  sir,  but  has  as  much  fashion  as  goes  to  the 
making  of  a  modest  gentlewoman." 

His  guest  looked  gravely  at  him.  "I  look  forward 
much  to  seeing  her,  M.  le  Vicomte!"  he  said  for  the 
tenth  time. 

"Ay,  you  may  say  so!"  the  Vicomte  answered.  "For 
in  her  you  will  see  a  Villeneuve,  and  the  last  of  the  line!" 
with  a  scowl  at  Roger.  "Neither  a  lout  with  his  boots 
full  of  hay-seeds — pah!  nor  a  sulky  girl  with  as  much 
manner  as  God  gave  her,  and  not  a  jot  to  it!  Nice 
company  I  have,  M.  des  Voeux,"  he  continued 
bitterly.  "Did  you  say  des  Voeux — I  never  heard  the 
name?" 

"Yes,  M.le  Vicomte." 

"Nice  company,  I  say,  for  a  Villeneuve  in  his  old  age! 


STILL  WATERS  TROUBLED.  67 

What  think  you  of  it?  Before  Coutras,  where  was  an 
end  of  the  good  old  days,  and  the  good  old  gentrice " 

"You  were  at  Coutras?" 

"Ay,  to  my  cost,  a  curse  on  it!  But  before  Coutras, 
I  say,  I  had  at  least  their  mother,  who  was  a  Monclar 
from  Rouergue.  She  had  at  any  rate  a  tongue  and 
could  speak.  And  my  daughter  the  Abbess  takes  after 
her,  though  may-be  more  after  me,  as  you  will  think 
when  you  see  her.  She  will  be  here,  she  says,  to-morrow, 
for  a  night  or  two. "  This  he  told  for  the  fifth  time  that 
evening. 

"I  am  looking  forward  to  seeing  her!"  the  guest  re- 
peated gravely — also  for  the  fifth  time. 

But  the  Vicomte  could  not  have  enough  of  boasting, 
which  was  doubly  sweet  to  him ;  first  because  it  exalted 
the  absent,  and  secondly  because  it  humiliated  those  who 
were  present.  "Thank  God,  she  at  least  is  not  as  God 
made  her!"  he  said  again,  pleased  with  the  phrase.  "At 
Court  last  year  the  Eang  noticed  her,  and  swore  she  was 
a  true  Villeneuve,  and  a  most  perfect  lady  without  fault 
or  blemish!" 

"His  Majesty  is  certainly  a  judge,"  the  listener  re- 
sponded, the  twinkle  in  his  eye  more  apparent  than 
usual. 

"To  be  sure!"  the  old  man  returned.  "Who  better? 
But,  for  the  matter  of  that,  I  am  a  judge  myself.  My 
daughter — for  there  is  only  one  worthy  of  the  name" — 
with  a  withering  glance  at  poor  Bonne — "is  not  hand  in 
glove  with  every  base-born  wench  about  the  place,  trapes- 
ing to  a  christening  in  a  stable  as  readily  as  if  the  child 
were  a  kmg's  son!  Ay,  and  as  I  am  a  Catholic,  praying 
beside  old  hags'  beds  till  the  lazy  priest  at  the  chapel 
has  nought  left  to  do  for  his  month's  meal!     Pah!" 


68  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Ranks  are  no  doubt  of  God's  invention,"  des  Voeux 
said  with  his  eyes  on  the  table. 

The  Vicomte  struck  the  board  angrily,  "Who  doubts 
it?"  he  exclaimed.  " Of  God's  invention,  sir?  Of  course 
they  are!" 

"But  I  take  it  that  they  exist,  in  part  at  least,"  des 
Ageaux  answered,  "as  a  provision  for  the  exercise  of 

charity;   and  of "  he  hesitated,  unwilling— he  read 

the  gathering  storm  on  the  Vicomte's  brow — to  give 
offence;  and,  by  a  coincidence,  he  was  saved  from  the 
necessity.  As  he  paused  the  door  flew  open,  and  a  serv- 
ing-man, not  one  of  the  two  who  had  waited  on  the  table, 
but  an  uncouth  creature,  shaggy  and  field-stained,  ap- 
peared gesticulating  on  the  threshold.  He  was  out  of 
breath,  apparently  he  could  not  speak;  while  the  gust 
of  wind  which  entered  with  him,  by  blowing  sideways 
the  long,  straggling  flames  of  the  candles,  and  deepening 
the  gloom  of  the  ill-lit  room,  made  it  impossible  to  dis- 
cern his  face. 

The  Vicomte  rose.  They  all  rose.  "What  does  this 
mean?"  he  cried  in  a  rage.     "What  is  it?" 

"There's  a  party  ringing  at  the  gate,  my  lord,  and— 
and  won't  take  no!"  the  man  gasped.  "A  half-dozen 
of  spears,  and  others  on  foot  and  horse.  A  body  of 
them.  Solomon  sent  me  to  ask  what's  to  do,  and  if  he 
shall  open." 

"There's  a  petticoat  with  them,"  a  second  voice  an- 
swered. The  speaker  showed  his  face  over  the  other's 
shoulder. 

"Imbeciles!"  the  Vicomte  retorted,  fired  with  rage. 
"It  is  your  lady  the  Abbess  come  a  day  before  her 
time!    It  is  my  daughter  and  you  stay  her  at  the  door!" 

"It  is  not  my  lady,"  the  second  man  answered  timidly. 


STILL  WATERS  TROUBLED.  69 

"It  might  be  some  of  her  company,  my  lord,  but  'tis  not 
her.     And  Solomon " 

"Well?     Well?'' 

"Says  that  they  are  not  her  people,  my  lord." 

The  Vicomte  groaned.  "If  I  had  a  son  worthy  the 
name!"  he  said,  and  then  he  broke  off,  looking  foolish. 
For  Roger  had  left  the  room  and  des  Ageaux  also. 
They  had  slipped  by  the  men  while  the  Vicomte  ques- 
tioned them,  and  run  out  through  the  hall  and  to  the 
gate — not  unarmed.  The  Vicomte,  seeing  this,  bade 
the  men  follow  them;  and  when  these  too  had  vanished, 
and  only  four  or  five  frightened  women  who  had  crowded 
into  the  room  at  the  first  alarm  remained,  he  began  to 
fumble  with  his  sword,  and  to  add  to  the  confusion  by 
calling  fussily  for  this  and  that,  and  to  bring  him  his 
arquebus,  and  not  to  open — not  to  open  till  he  came! 
In  truth  years  had  worked  imperceptibly  on  him.  His 
nerves,  like  many  things  about  him,  were  not  what 
they  had  been — ^before  Coutras.  And  he  was  still  giving 
contrary  directions,  and  scolding  the  women,  and  bid- 
ding them  make  way  for  him — since  it  seemed  there  was 
not  a  man  to  go  to  the  gate  but  himself — when  approach- 
ing voices  broke  on  his  ear  and  silenced  him.  An 
instant  later  one  or  two  men  appeared  among  the 
women  in  the  doorway,  and  the  little  crowd  fell  back 
in  wonder,  to  make  room  for  a  low  dark  man,  bare- 
headed and  breathing  hard,  with  disordered  hair  and 
glittering  eyes,  who,  thrusting  the  women  to  either  side, 
cried — not  once,  but  again,  and  yet  again: — 

"Room!  Room  for  the  Countess  of  Rochechouart ! 
Way  for  the  Countess!" 

At  the  third  repetition  of  this — which  he  seemed  to 
say  mechanically — his  eyes  took  in  the  scene,  the  table. 


70  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

the  room,  and  the  waiting  figure  of  the  scandalized 
Vicomte,  and  his  voice  brol^e.  "Saved!"  he  cried, 
flinging  up  his  arms,  and  reeling  slightly  as  if  he  would 
faU.     "My  lady  is  saved!     Saved!" 

And  then,  behind  the  low,  dark  man,  who,  it  was  plain, 
was  almost  beside  himself,  the  Vicomte  saw  the  white 
face  and  shrinking  form  of  a  small,  slight  girl  little 
more  than  a  child,  whose  eyes  were  like  no  eyes  but  a 
haunted  hare's,  so  large  and  bright  and  affrighted  were 
they. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE     DILEMMA. 


Sheer  amazement  held  the  Vicomte  silent.  The  Count- 
ess of  Rochechouart,  of  the  proud  house  of  Longueville, 
that  in  those  days  yielded  place  to  scarce  a  house  in 
France — the  Countess  of  Rochechouart  to  be  seeking 
admittance  at  his  door!  And  at  this  hour  of  the  night! 
She,  who  was  of  the  greatest  heiresses  of  France,  whose 
hand  was  weighted  with  a  hundred  manors,  and  of  whose 
acquaintance  the  Abbess  had  lately  boasted  as  a  thing 
of  which  even  a  Villeneuve  might  be  proud,  she  to  be 
knocking  at  his  gate  in  the  dark  hours!  And  seeking 
help!  The  Countess — his  head  went  round.  He  was 
still  gazing  speechless  with  sur^Drise  when  the  short  dark 
man  who  had  entered  with  her  fell  on  his  knees  before 
the  girl,  and  seizing  her  hand  mumbled  upon  it,  wept  on 
it,  babbled  over  it,  heedless  alike  of  the  crowd  of  gazers 
who  pressed  upon  him,  and  of  the  master  of  the  house, 
who  stared  aghast. 

The  Vicomte's  amazement  began  at  that  to  give  place 
to  perplexity.  The  Abbess,  had  she  been  here,  would 
have  known  how  to  entertain  such  a  guest.  But  Bonne 
and  Roger — they  were  naught.  Yet  he  must  do  some- 
thing. He  found  his  voice.  "If  I  have,  indeed,"  he 
said,  for  he  was  still  suspicious  of  a  trick,  so  forlorn  and 

71 


72  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

childish  seemed  the  figure  before  him — "if  I  have  indeed 
the  honour,"  he  repeated  stiffly,  "to  address  the  Countess 
of  Rochechouart,  I — I  bid  her  welcome  to  my  poor 
house." 

"I  am  Mademoiselle  de  Rochechouart, "  the  girl  mur- 
mured, speaking  faintly.     "I  thank  you." 

It  was  apparent  that  she  could  say  no  more.  Her 
face  was  scratched  and  bleeding,  her  hair  was  loose,  her 
riding-dress,  stained  to  the  throat  with  dirt,  was  torn 
in  more  places  than  one.  There  were  other  signs  that, 
frail  as  she  was,  she  had  ridden  hard  and  desperately; 
ridden  to  the  end  of  her  strength. 

But  the  Vicomte  thought,  not  of  her,  but  of  him- 
self, as  was  his  custom;  not  of  her  plight,  but  of  the 
figure  he  was  making  before  his  people,  who  stared 
open-mouthed  at  the  unwonted  scene.  "Time  was, 
mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  drawing  himself  up,  "before 
Coutras,  when  I  could  have  offered  you" — with  a  bow — 
"a  more  fitting  hospitality.  Time  was  when  the  house 
of  Villeneuve,  which  has  entertained  four  kings,  could 
have  afforded  a  more  fitting  reception  to — hem — to 
beauty  in  distress.  But  that  was  before  Coutras.  Since 
Coutras,  destined  to  be  the  grave  of  the  nobility  of 
France— I What  is  it?" 

"I  think  she  is  faint,  sir,"  Bonne  murmured  timidly. 
She,  with  a  woman's  eye,  saw  that  the  Countess  was 
swaying,  and  she  sprang  forward  to  support  her.  "She 
is  ill,  sir,"  she  continued  hurriedly  and  with  greater 
boldness.  "Permit  me,  I  beg  you,  sir,  to  take  her  to 
my  room.  She  will  be  better  there — until  we  can  ar- 
range a  chamber."  Already  the  child,  half -fainting, 
was  clinging  to  her,  and  but  for  her  must  have  fallen. 

The  Vicomte,  taken  aback  by  his  daughter's  pre- 


THE  DILEMMA.  73 

sumption,  could  only  stare.  "If  this  be  so,"  he  said 
grudgingly,    "certainly!        But    I    don't    understand. 

How    comes    all    this    about?     Eh?    How "     But 

he  found  that  the  girl  did  not  heed  him,  and  he  turned 
and  addressed  the  attendant.  "How,  you,  sir,  comes 
your  mistress  here?    And  in  this  plight?" 

But  the  dark  man,  as  deaf  as  his  mistress  to  the  ques- 
tion, had  turned  to  follow  her.  He  seemed  indeed  to 
have  no  more  notion  of  being  parted  from  her  than  a 
dog  which  finds  itself  alone  with  its  master  among 
strangers.  Bonne  at  the  door  discovered  his  presence 
at  her  elbow,  and  paused  in  some  embarrassment. 
The  Vicomte  saw  the  pause,  and  glad  to  do  something — 
he  had  just  ordered  off  the  women  with  fleas  in  their 
ears — he  called  loudly  to  the  man  to  stand  back.  "Stand 
back,  fellow,"  he  repeated.  "The  Countess  will  be 
well  tended.  Let  two  of  the  women  be  sent  to  her 
to  do  what  IS  needful — as  is  becoming."  • 

But  the  Countess,  faint  as  she  was,  heard  and  spoke. 
"He  is  my  foster-father,"  she  murmured  without  turn- 
ing her  head.  "If  he  may  lie  at  my  door  he  will  heed 
no  one." 

Bonne,  whose  arm  was  round  her,  nodded  a  cheerful 
assent,  and,  followed  by  two  of  the  women,  the  three 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  girl's  chamber. 
The  Vicomte,  left  to  digest  the  matter,  sniffed  once 
or  twice  with  a  face  of  amazement,  and  then  awoke  to 
the  fact  that  Roger  and  his  guest  were  still  absent. 
Fortunately,  before  he  had  done  more  than  give  vent 
to  peevish  complaints,  they  entered. 

He  waited,  with  his  eyes  on  the  door.  To  his  sur- 
prise no  one  followed  them — no  steward,  no  attend- 
ant.    "Well?"  he  cried,  withering  them  with  his  glance. 


74  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"What  does  this  mean?  Where  are  the  others?  Is 
there  no  one  in  the  Countess's  train  of  a  condition 
to  be  presented  to  me?  Or  how  com.es  it  that  you  have 
not  brought  him,  booby," — this  to  Roger — "to  give 
me  some  account  of  these  strange  proceedings?  Am 
I  the  last  to  be  told  who  come  into  my  house?  But 
God  knows,  since  Coutras " 

"There  is  no  one,  M.  le  Vicomte,"  the  Lieutenant 
answered. 

The  Vicomte  glared  at  him.  "How?  No  one?"  he 
retorted  pompously.  "Impossible!  Do  you  suppose 
that  the  Countess  of  Rochechouart  travels  with  no 
larger  attendance  than  a  poor  gentleman  of  Brittany? 
You  mean,  sir,  I  take  it,  that  there  is  no  one  of  condition, 
though  that  is  so  contrary  to  rule  that  I  can  hardly 
believe  it.  A  countess  of  Rochechouart  and  no  gentle- 
men in  her  train!  She  should  travel  with  four  at  the 
least!" 

"I  only  know  that  there  is  no  one,  sir." 

"I  do  not  understand!" 

"Neither  do  we,"  the  Lieutenant  of  Perigord  returned, 
somewhat  out  of  patience.  "The  matter  is  as  dark  to 
us  as  it  is  to  you,  sir.  It  is  plain  that  the  Countess  has 
experienced  a  serious  adventure,  but  beyond  that  we 
know  nothing,  since  neither  she  nor  her  attendant  has 
spoken.  He  seems  beside  himself  with  joy  and  she  with 
fatigue." 

"But  the  spears?"  his  host  retorted  sharply.  "The 
men  on  horse  and  foot  who  alarmed  the  porter?" 

"They  vanished  as  soon  as  we  opened.  One  I  did 
delay  a  moment,  and  learned — though  he  was  in  haste  to 
be  gone — that  they  fell  in  with  the  lady  a  half  mile  from 
here.     She  was  then  in  the  plight  in  which  you  have 


THE  DILEMMA.  75 

seen  her,  and  it  was  at  her  attendant's  prayer,  who 
informed  them  of  her  quality,  that  they  escorted  her  to 
this  house.  They  learned  no  more  from  him  than  that 
the  lady's  train  had  been  attacked  in  the  woods  between 
this  and  Vlaye,  and  that  the  man  got  his  mistress  away 
and  hid  with  her,  and  was  making  for  this  house  when 
the  horsemen  met  them." 

"Incredible!"  the  Vicomte  exclaimed,  stalking  across 
the  hearth  and  returning  in  excitement.  "  Since  Coutras 
I  have  heard  no  such  thing!  A  Countess  of  Roche- 
chouart  attacked  on  the  road  and  put  to  it  like  a  common 
herdgirl.  It  must  be  the  work  of  those  cursed — 
peasants!  It  must  be  so!  But,  then,  the  men  who 
brought  her  to  the  door  and  vanished  again,  who  are 
they?  Travellers  are  not  so  common  in  these  parts. 
You  might  journey  three  days  before  you  fell  in  with  a 
body  of  men-at-arms  to  protect  you  on  your  way." 

"True,"  des  Ageaux  answered.  "But  I  learned  no 
more  from  them." 

"And  you.  Master  Booby?"  the  Vicomte  said,  ad- 
dressing Roger  with  his  usual  sarcasm.  "You  asked 
nothing,  I  suppose?" 

"I  was  busied  about  the  Countess,"  the  lad  muttered. 
"It  was  dark,  and  I  heard  no  more  than  their  voices." 

"Then  it  was  only  you  who  saw  them?"  the  Vicomte 
exclaimed,  turning  again  to  des  Ageaux.  "Did  you  not 
notice  what  manner  of  men  they  were,  sir,  how  many, 
and  of  what  class?  Strange  that  they  should  leave  a 
warm  house-door  at  this  hour!  Did  you  form  no  opin- 
ion of  them?  Were  they" — he  brought  out  the  word 
with  an  effort — "Crocans,  think  you?" 

The  Lieutenant  replied  that  he  took  them  for  the 
armed  attendants  of  a  gentleman  passing  that  way, 


76  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

and  the  Vicomte,  though  ill-content  with  the  answer,  was 
obliged  to  put  up  with  it.  "Yet  it  seems  passing  strange 
to  me,"  he  retorted,  ''that  you  did  not  think  their 
drawing  off  a  httle  beside  the  ordinary.  And  who 
travels  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  I  would  like  to  know?" 

The  Lieutenant  made  no  answer,  and  the  Vicomte  too 
fell  silent.  From  time  to  time  serving- women  had 
passed  through  the  room — for,  after  the  awkward  fash- 
ion of  those  days,  the  passage  to  the  inner  apartments 
was  through  the  dining-hall — some  with  lights,  and 
some  with  fire  in  pans.  The  draught  from  the  closing 
doors  had  more  than  once  threatened  to  extinguish  the 
flickering  candles.  Such  flittings  produced  an  air 
of  bustle  and  a  hum  of  preparation  long  unknown  in 
that  house;  but  they  were  certainly  more  to  the  taste 
of  the  menials  than  the  master.  At  each  interruption 
the  Vicomte  pished  and  pshawed,  glaring  as  if  he  would 
slay  the  offender.  But  the  women,  emboldened  by  the 
event  and  the  presence  of  strangers,  did  not  heed  him, 
and  after  some  minutes  of  silent  sufferance  his  patience 
came  to  an  end. 

"Go  you,"  he  cried  to  Roger,  "and  bid  the  girl  come 
to  me." 

"The  Countess,  sir?"  the  lad  exclaimed  in  astonish- 
ment. 

The  Vicomte  swore.  "No,  fool!"  he  replied.  "Your 
sister!  Is  she  master  of  the  house,  or  am  I?  Bid  her 
descend  this  instant  and  tell  me  what  is  forward  and 
what  she  has  learned." 

Roger,  with  secret  reluctance,  obeyed,  and  his  father, 
sorely  fretting,  awaited  his  return.  Two  minutes 
elapsed,  and  ihree.  Seldom  stirring  abroad,  the 
Vicomte  had,  in  spite  of  all  his  talk  about  Coutras,  an 


THE  DILEMMA.  77 

overweening  sense  of  his  own  importance,  and  he  was 
about  to  break  out  in  fury  when  Bonne  at  length  en- 
tered.    She  was  followed  by  Roger. 

It  was  clear  at  a  glance  that  the  girl  was  frightened; 
less  clear  that  mixed  with  her  fear  was  another  emotion. 
"Well,"  the  Vicomte  cried,  throwing  himself  back  in 
his  great  chair  and  fixing  her  with  his  angry  eyes. 
"What  is  it?  Am  I  to  know  nothing — in  my  own 
house?" 

Bonne  controlled  herself  by  an  effort.  "On  the 
contrary,  sir,  there  is  that  which  I  think  you  should 
know,"  she  murmured.  "The  Countess  has  told  me 
the  story.  She  was  attacked  on  the  road,  some  of  her 
people  she  fears  were  killed,  and  all  were  scattered. 
She  herself  escaped  barely  with  her  life. " 

The  Vicomte  stared.  "Where?"  he  said.  "Where 
was  it?" 

"An  hour  from  here,  sir." 

"Towards  Vlaye?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  she  barely  escaped?" 

"You  saw  her,  sir." 

"And  who — who  does  sne  say  dared  to  commit  this 
outrage?" 

Bonne  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes  sought  her  brother's 
and  sank  again.     She  trembled. 

The  Vicomte,  though  not  the  keenest  of  observers, 
detected  her  embarrassment.  He  fancied  that  he  knew 
its  origin,  and  the  cause  of  her  hesitation.  In  a  voice 
of  triumph,  "Ay,  who?"  he  replied.  "You  don't  wish 
to  say.  But  I  can  tell  you.  I  read  it  in  your  face.  I 
can  tell  you,  disobedient  wench,  who  alone  would  be 
guilty  of  such  an  outrage.     Those  gutter-sweepings" — 


78  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE 

his  face  swelled  with  rage — "made  up  of  broken  lacqueys 
and  ploughboys,  whom  they  call  Crocans!  Eh,  girl, 
is  it  not  so?"  he  continued  savagely.     "Am  I  not  right?" 

"No,  sir,"  she  murmured  without  daring  to  look  up. 

His  face  feU.  "No?"  he  repeated.  "No?  But 
I  don 't  believe  you !  Who  then  ?  Don 't  lie  to  me !  Who 
then?"     He  rapped  the  table  before  him. 

"The  Captain  of  Vlaye,"  she  whispered. 

The  Vicomte  sank  back  in  his  chair.  "Impossible!" 
he  cried.  Then  in  a  much  lower  tone:  "Impossible!" 
he  repeated.  "You  dream,  girl.  M.  de  Vlaye  has  done 
some  things  not  quite — not  regular.  But — but  in  cases 
perfectly  different.  To  people  of — of  no  consequence! 
This  cannot  be!" 

"I  fear  it  is  so,  sir,"  she  whispered,  without  raising 
her  eyes.     "Nor  is  that — the  worst." 

The  Vicomte  clenched  his  fingers  about  the  arms  of 
his  chair  and  nodded  the  question  he  could  not  frame. 

"It  was  with  the  Abbess,  sir — with  my  sister,"  Bonne 
continued  in  a  low  tone,  "that  the  Countess  was  to  stay 
the  night.  I  fear  that  it  was  from  her  that  he  learned 
where  and  how  to  beset  her. " 

The  Vicomte  looked  as  if  he  was  about  to  have  a  fit. 

"What?"  he  cried.  "Do  you  dare,  unnatural  girl,  to 
assert  that  your  sister  was  privy  to  this  outrage?" 

"Heaven  forbid,  sir!"  Bonne  answered  fervently. 
"  She  knew  naught  of  it .     But ' ' 

"Then  why " 

"But  it  was  from  her,  I  fear,  that  he  learned  where 
the  child — she  is  little  more — could  be  surprised." 

The  Vicomte  glared  at  her  without  speaking.  The 
Lieutenant,  who  had  listened,  not  without  admiration 
of  the  girl's  sense  and  firmness,  seized  the  opening  to 


THE  DILEMMA.  79 

intervene.  "Were  it  not  well,  sir,"  he  said,  his  matter- 
of-fact  tone  calming  the  Vicomte's  temper,  "if  made- 
moiselle told  us  as  nearly  as  possible  what  she  has  heard? 
And,  as  she  has  been  somewhat  shaken,  perhaps  you 
will  permit  her  to  sit  down!  She  will  then,  I  think,  be 
able  to  tell  us  more  quickly  what  we  want." 

The  Vicomte  gave  a  surly  assent,  and  the  Lieutenant 
himself  placed  a  stool  for  the  girl  where  she  could  lean 
upon  the  table.  Her  father  opened  his  eyes  at  the 
attention,  but  something  in  des  Ageaux's  face  silenced 
the  sneer  on  his  lips,  and  he  waited  untl  Bonne  began. 

"The  Countess  lay  at  Pons  last  night,  sir,"  she  said 
in  a  low  tone.  "There  the  lady  who  was  formerly  her 
gouvernante,  and  still  rules  her  household,  fell  ill.  The 
plague  is  in  Western  Poitou,  and  though  the  Countess 
would  have  stayed,  her  physician  insisted  that  she  should 
proceed.  Accordingly  she  left  the  invalid  in  his  charge 
and  that  of  some  of  her  people,  while  she  herself  pursued 
her  way  through  Jonsac  and  Barbesieux  with  a  train 
reduced  to  fourteen  persons,  of  whom  eight  were  well 
armed." 

"This  is  what  comes  of  travelling  in  such  a  fashion," 
the  Vicomte  said  contemptuously.  "I  remember  when 
I  never  passed  the  gates  without — ^but  go  on!" 

"She  now  thinks  that  the  gouvernante' s  food  was 
tampered  with.  Be  that  as  it  may,  her  company  passed 
our  ford  in  the  afternoon,  and  an  hour  later  reached  the 
ascent  a  league  this  side  of  Vlaye.  They  were  midway 
on  the  ascent,  when  half  a  dozen  shots  were  fired. 
Several  of  their  horses  were  struck,  and  the  rest  seized 
by  a  number  of  men  who  sprang  from  the  undergrowth. 
In  the  panic  those  who  were  at  the  rear  attempted  to 
turn,  but  found  their  retreat  cut  off.    The  Countess  alone, 


80  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE, 

who  rode  in  the  middle  with  her  steward,  escaped 
through  the  devotion  of  a  servant,  who  thrust  his  horse 
before  the  leader  of  the  bandits  and  brought  him  down. 
Fulbert,  her  steward,  saw  the  opportunity,  seized  her 
rein,  and,  plunging  into  the  undergrowth,  reached  by- 
good  luck  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and,  hidden  by  the 
wood,  gained  a  start.  He  knew,  however,  that  her 
strength  would  not  hold  out,  and  at  the  first  sound 
of  pursuit  he  alighted  in  a  coppice,  drove  on  the  horses, 
and  crept  away  with  her  through  the  underwood.  He 
hoped  to  take  shelter  here,  but  passed  the  entrance  in 
the  darkness  and  walked  into  the  midst  of  a  party  of 
men  encamped  at  the  ford.  Then  he  thought  all  lost, 
deeming  them  the  band  that  had  waylaid  the  Count- 
ess  " 

"And  who  were  they,  if  they  were  not?"  the  Vicomte 
asked,  unable  to  restrain  his  curiosity.  "Eh?  They 
were  camping  at  the  ford?" 

"Some  riders  belonging  to  the  household  of  the 
Lieutenant  of  Perigord,  sir,  on  their  way  to  join  him  in 
his  government.  They  were  so  honest  as  to  guard 
the  Countess  hither " 

"And  go  again?  The  good  Lord!"  the  Vicomte 
cried  irritably.     "Why?" 

"I  do  not  know,  sir." 

"Go  on,  then.  Why  do  you  break  off?  But — 
enough!"  The  Vicomte  looked  at  the  other  listeners 
with  an  air  of  triumph.  "Where  is  Vlaye  in  this? 
Because  it  was  within  a  league  of  his  castle,  you  put  it 
on  him,  you  baggage?" 

"No,  sir,  indeed!"  Bonne  cried  anxiously.  "But 
Fulbert  the  steward  knows  M.  de  Vlaye  well,  and 
recognised  him.     He  wore  a  mask,  it  seems,  but  when 


THE  DILEMMA.  81 

his  horse  fell,  the  mask  slipped,  and  Fulbert  saw  his  face 
and  knew  him.     Moreover " 

''Well?" 

"One  of  the  band  rode  a  bald-faced  black  horse,  which 
the  steward  saw  in  M.  de  Vlaye's  troop  at  Angoul^me 
two  months  back,  and  to  which  he  says  he  could  swear 
among  ten  thousand." 

The  Vicomte  swore  as  one  among  a  large  number. 
But  at  length,  "And  what  is  this  to  do  with  me?"  he 
fumed.  "What  is  this  to  me?  Time  was,  before 
Coutras,  when  I  might  have  been  expected  to — to  keep 
the  roads,  and  stay  such  things!  But  now — body  of 
Satan,  what  is  it  to  me?" 

No  one  spoke,  and  he  looked  about  him  angrily, 
resenting  their  silence.  "What  is  it?"  he  snarled. 
"What  are  you  keeping  back?" 

"Nothing,  sir,"  Bonne  answered. 

"Then  what  would  you?" 

"If,"  Bonne  ventured  desperately,  "M.  de  Vlaye  come 
to-morrow  with  my  sister — with  the  Abbess,  sir,  as  is  not 
unlikely — and  find  the  Countess  here,  will  she  be 
safe?" 

The  Vicomte 's  mouth  opened,  and  slowly  consterna- 
tion settled  upon  his  features.  "  Mon  Dieu!"  he  mut- 
tered. "I  had  not  thought  of  that.  But  here — no,  no, 
he  would  not  dare!    He  would  not  dare!" 

"He  went  very  far  to-day,  sir,"  Bonne  objected,  gain- 
ing courage  from  his  face.  "So  far  that  he  must  go 
farther  to  ensure  himself  from  the  consequences." 

The  Vicomte  was  silent. 

The  Lieutenant  coughed.  "If  his  object,"  he  said, 
"be  to  force  a  marriage  with  the  Countess " 

The  Vicomte,   with  an    oath,  cut    him   short.     "A 


82  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

marriage?"  he  said.  "A  marriage?  When  he  and  my 
daughter  the  Abbess  are — but  who  said  aught  of  the 
kind?    Who  said  aught  of  a  marriage?" 

The  Lieutenant  did  not  answer,  and  the  Vicomte, 
after  growhng  in  his  beard,  turned  to  him.  "Why," 
he  demanded  in  a  tone  that,  though  ungracious,  was 
no  longer  violent,  "why  do  you  say  that  that  was  his 
object?" 

"Because,"  the  Lieutenant  answered,  "I  happen  to 
know  that  M.  de  Longueville,  who  is  her  guardian,  has 
his  hands  full.  His  wife  and  children  are  prisoners  with 
the  Spaniards,  and  he  is  moving  heaven  and  earth  and 
the  court  to  procure  their  release.  He  has  no  thought 
to  spare  for  the  Countess,  his  cousin;  and  were  she  once 
married,  however  violently,  I  doubt  if  he  or  any  would 
venture  to  dispute  her  possessions  with  a  Vlaye,  whose 
resources  her  wealth  would  treble.  Such  knights-er- 
rant," he  continued  drily,  "are  not  very  common,  M.  le 
Vicomte.  Set  M.  de  Vlaye's  strength  at  three  hundred 
men-at-arms ' ' 

"Four!"  the  Vicomte  muttered,  despite  himself. 

"Then  double  the  four — as  such  a  marriage,  however 
effected,  would  double  them — and  I  doubt,"  with  a 
courteous  bow,  "if  even  a  Villeneuve  would  find  it  easy 
to  avenge  a  wrong!" 

The  Vicomte  fidgeted  in  his  seat.  "You  seem  to 
know  a  vast  deal  about  it,  sir,"  he  said,  with  ill-feigned 
contempt. 

"I  should  feel  it  an  honour,"  the  Lieutenant  answered 
politely,  "to  be  permitted  to  join  in  the  defence." 

"Defence!"  the  Vicomte  exclaimed,  staring  at  him  in 
astonishment.  "You  go  fast,  sir!  Defence?  What 
do  you  mean?" 


THE  DILEMMA.  83 

"If  M.  de  Vlaye  learn  that  the  Countess  has  taken 
refuge  here — I  fear  it  will  come  to  that. " 

"Pooh!  Impossible!  Defence,  indeed!  What  are 
you  dreaming  of?" 

But  the  guest  continued  to  look  grave,  and  the 
Vicomte,  after  muttering  incoherently,  and  drumming 
on  the  table  with  his  fingers,  condescended  to  ask 
with  a  sneer  what  he  would  do — in  the  circumstances. 

"I  should  keep  her  presence  from  him,"  des  Ageaux 
answered.  "I  have  no  right,  I  know,"  he  continued,  in 
a  more  concihatory  tone,  "to  give  counsel  to  one  of  your 
experience,  M.  le  Vicomte.  But  I  see  no  choice  save 
to  do  what  I  suggest,  or  to  pull  up  the  drawbridge." 

The  Vicomte  sat  up  straight.  Pull  up  the  draw- 
bridge? Was  he  dreaming — he  who  had  sat  down  to  sup 
without  a  thought  of  misfortune?  He  with  four  hun- 
dred yards  of  wall  to  guard,  and  some  seven  pikes  to 
hold  it — to  defy  Vlaye  and  his  four  hundred  ruffians? 
Body  of  Satan,  he  was  not  mad!  Defy  \^aye,  whom 
he  feared  even  while  he  sneered  at  him  as  an  adventurer? 
Vlaye,  in  whose  star  he  believed  even  while  he  sneered. 
Or  would  he  have  dreamed  of  giving  him  his  daughter? 
Pull  up  the  drawbridge?     Never! 

"I  am  not  mad,"  he  said  coldly.  But  his  hands 
trembled. 

"Then,  M.  le  Vicomte,  it  remains  to  keep  it  from 
him." 

"How?  You  talk  at  random,"  the  exasperated  man 
answered.  "Can  I  close  the  mouth  of  every  gossip  in 
the  house?  Can  I  cut  out  every  woman's  tongue,  be- 
ginning with  that  girl's?  How  can  I  keep  out  his  men, 
or  stop  their  ears  over  the  wine-pot?" 

"Could  you  not  admit  him  only?" 


84  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"And  proclaim  from  the  housetop,"  the  Vicomte  re- 
torted with  contempt,  "that  I  have  something  to 
hide?" 

The  Lieutenant  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  it  was 
plain  that  he  was  puzzled  by  this  view  of  the  position. 
' '  Certainly  that  has  to  be  borne  in  mind, ' '  he  said.  ' '  You 
are  quite  right. " 

"To  be  sure  it  has!"  the  Vicomte  answered  brusquely, 
glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of  putting  this  over- 
zealous  adviser  in  his  right  place.  But  the  satisfaction  of 
triumph  faded  quickly,  and  left  him  face  to  face  with  the 
situation.  He  cursed  Vlaye  for  placing  him  in  the 
dilemma.  He  cursed  the  Countess— why  could  she 
not  have  taken  refuge  elsewhere?  Last  of  all,  he  cursed 
his  guest,  who,  after  showing  himself  offensively  able  to 
teach  him  his  duty,  failed  the  moment  it  came  to  find- 
ing an  expedient. 

The  solution  of  the  riddle  came  from  a  quarter  whence 
— ^at  any  rate  by  the  Vicomte — it  was  least  expected. 
"May  I  say  something?"  Roger  ventured  timidly. 

His  father  glared  at  him.  "You?"  he  exclaimed. 
And  then  ungraciously,  "Say  on!"  he  growled. 

"We  have  cut  half  the  grass  in  the  long  meadow,"  the 
lad  answered.  "And  to-morrow  we  ought  to  be  both 
cutting  and  making,  while  it  is  fine.  Last  year,  as  we 
were  short-handed,  the  women  helped.  If  you  were  to 
order  all  but  Solomon  to  the  hay-field  to-morrow— it  is 
the  farthest  from  here,  beside  the  river — there  would 
be  no  one  to  talk  or  tell,  sir. " 

Des  Ageaux  struck  his  leg  in  approbation.  "The  lad 
has  it !"  he  said.  "  With  your  permission,  M.  le  Vicomte, 
what  could  be  better?" 

"Better?"  the  Vicomte  retorted,   throwing  himself 


THE  DILEMMA.  85 

back  in  his  chair.  "What?  I  am  to  open  my  gate  with 
my  own  hands?" 

"Solomon  would  open.     And  he  can  be  trusted." 

"Receive  my  daughter  without  man  or  maid?"  the 
Vicomte  cried.  "Show  myseK  to  strangers  without  my 
people?  Appear  like  one  of  the  base-born  beggarly 
ploughmen  with  mud  in  their  veins,  with  whom  you  love 
to  mix?  What  mean  you,  sirrah,  by  such  a  sugges- 
tion?   Shame  on  you,  unnatural  fool ! ' ' 

"But,  M.  le  Vicomte,"  the  Lieutenant  remonstrated, 
"if  you  will  not  do  that " 

"Never!    Never!" 

"Then,"  des  Ageaux  answered,  more  stiffly,  "it  re- 
mains only  to  pull  up  the  drawbridge.  Since,  I  pre- 
sume," he  continued,  his  tone  taking  insensibly  a  note 
of  disdain,  "you  do  not  propose  to  give  up  the  young 
lady,  or  to  turn  her  from  your  door." 

"Turn  her  from  my  door?" 

"That  being  at  once  to  help  M,  de  Vlaye  to  this 
marriage,  and  to  drag  the  name  of  Villeneuve  in  the 
mud!  But"— breaking  off  with  a  bow — "I  am  sure 
that  the  honour  of  the  family  is  safe  in  your  hands, 
M.  le  Vicomte. " 

"It  is  well  you  said  that!"  the  Vicomte  cried,  his  face 
purple,  his  hands  palsied  with  rage.  "It  is  well  you 
broke  off,  sir,  or  I  would  have  proved  to  you  that  my 
honour  is  safe  with  me.  Body  of  Satan,  am  I  to  be 
preached  to  by  everybody — every  brainless  lad,"  he 
continued,  prudently  diverting  his  tirade  to  the  head  of  the 
unlucky  Roger,  "who  chooses  to  prate  before  his  elders! 
Mon  Dieu !  There  was  a  time  when  children  sat  mute 
instead  of  preaching.  But  that  was  before  Coutras!" 
— bitterly — "when  most  things  came  to  an  end," 


86  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

This  time  des  Ageaux  had  the  shrewdness  to  be 
silent,  and  he  garnered  the  reward  of  his  reticence.  The 
Vicomte,  rant  as  wildly  as  he  might,  was  no  fool,  though 
vanity  was  hourly  putting  foolish  things  into  his  mouth. 
He  was  not  blind — had  he  not  "since  Coutras"  always 
on  his  lips? — to  the  changes  which  time  had  wrought  in 
the  world,  and  he  knew  that  face  to  face  with  his  formi- 
dable neighbour  he  was  helpless.  Nor  was  he  in  the  dark 
on  Vlaye's  character.  So  far  the  adventurer  had  re- 
spected him,  and  in  presence,  and  at  a  distance,  had 
maintained  an  observance  and  a  regard  that  was  flatter- 
ing to  the  decayed  gentleman.  But  the  Vicomte  had 
seen  the  fate  of  others  who  crossed  the  Captain  of  Vlaye. 
He  knew  how  impotent  the  law  had  proved  to  save  them, 
how  slack  their  friends — in  a  word,  how  quickly  the 
waters  had  rolled  over  them.  And  he  was  astute  enough 
to  see,  with  all  his  conceit,  that  as  it  had  been  with  them, 
it  might  be  with  him,  if  he  stood  in  M.  de  Vlaye's  way. 

On  the  other  hand,  had  lie  been  mean  enough  to  de- 
liver up  the  Countess,  he  dared  not.  In  the  first  place, 
to  do  so  would,  at  the  best,  be  hazardous ;  she  had  power- 
ful friends,  and  whether  she  escaped  or  married  her 
captor  she  might  not  forgive  him.  In  the  second 
place,  he  did  not  lightly  resign  the  plan,  which  he  had 
conceived,  of  uniting  his  favourite  daughter  to  the 
rising  adventurer.  True,  M.  de  Vlaye's  position  was 
anomalous,  was  precarious.  But  a  day,  a  bribe,  a  turn 
of  the  cards  might  legalise  it  and  place  him  high  in 
Court  favour.     And  then 

The  Vicomte's  train  of  thought  ran  no  farther  in 
silence.  With  an  oath  and  an  ill  grace  he  bade  them 
do  as  they  would.  "Things,"  he  cried,  "are  come  to 
a  pass  indeed  when  guests " 


THE  DILEMMA.  87 

"A  thousand  pardons,  M.  le  Vicomte!" 

"And  children  dictate  what  is  to  be  done  and  what  to 
be  left  undone!"  He  looked  older  as  he  spoke;  more 
broken  and  more  peevish.  "But  since  Coutras  the 
devil  has  all,  I  think." 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE    CAPTAIN   OF   VLAYE. 


Danger,  that  by  night  sends  forth  a  vanguard  of  fears, 
and  quells  the  spirits  before  it  delivers  the  attack,  pur- 
sues a  different  course  by  day,  seeking  to  surprise  rather 
than  to  intimidate.  Seldom  had  June  sun  shone  on 
a  fairer  scene  than  that  which  the  lifting  of  the  river 
mists  delivered  to  the  eyes  of  the  dwellers  in  the  chateau 
on  the  following  morning,  or  on  one  more  fit  to  raise 
the  despondent  courage.  The  tract  of  meadow  land 
that,  enfolded  by  the  river,  formed  the  only  clear  ground 
about  the  house  lay  in  breezy  sunshine,  which  patches 
of  shadow,  flung  on  the  sward  by  such  of  the  sur- 
rounding trees  as  rose  a  little  higher  than  the  ordinary, 
did  but  heighten.  The  woods  which  enclosed  this 
meadow  land,  here  with  a  long  straight  wall  of  oaks, 
there  with  broken  clumps  of  trees  that  left  to  view 
distant  glades  and  alleys,  sparkled,  where  the  sun  lighted 
their  recesses,  with  unnumbered  dew-drops,  or  with 
floating  gossamers,  harbingers  of  a  fair  day.  The  oc- 
casional caw  of  a  rook  flying  fieldward  over  the  open, 
or  the  low,  steady  coo  of  the  pigeons  in  the  great  stone 
cote  beside  the  gate,  added  the  last  touch  of  peace  to 
the  scene;  a  scene  so  innocent  that  it  forbade  the 
notion  of  danger  and  rendered  it  hard  to  believe  that 

88 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE.  89 

amid  surroundings  like  these,  and  under  the  same  sky 
of  blue,  man's  passions  were,  in  parts  not  distant,  turn- 
ing an  earthly  heaven  to  a  hell. 

Access  to  these  meadows  was  by  a  sled-road,  which, 
starting  from  the  great  gate,  wound  round  the  wall  of 
the  courtyard,  and  then,  turning  its  back  on  the  house, 
passed  by  a  small  stone  bridge  over  the  brook  which  had 
once  supplied  the  moat.  From  the  bridge  the  track  ran 
across  the  meadows  to  the  abandoned  farms  which  stood 
on  the  river  bank  half  a  mile  from  the  chateau.  The 
only  building  among  these  which  retained  a  roof  was  a 
long  wooden  barn,  still  used  to  contain  waste  fodder  and 
the  like. 

It  was  from  this  bridge,  a  narrow  span  of  stone,  that 
Bonne,  the  following  morning,  gazed  on  the  scene,  her 
hand  raised  to  shade  her  eyes  from  the  sun.  The  whole 
of  the  Vicomte's  household,  with  the  exception  of  a 
deaf  cook  and  of  Solomon,  who  could  be  trusted,  were 
gone  to  the  hay-field ;  some  with  delight,  as  welcoming 
any  change,  and  some  with  whispers  and  surmises. 
Thence  their  shrill  voices  and  laughter  were  borne  by 
the  light  breeze  to  the  girl's  ears. 

Nothing  had  been  heard  of  the  Countess's  train,  and 
her  concealment  during  the  hours  of  danger  had  per- 
plexed both  the  Vicomte  and  his  advisers.  His  pride 
would  not  permit  him  to  make  her  privy  to  the  coming 
visit,  or  the  precautions  which  it  rendered  needful. 
Yet  without  acknowledging  his  inability  to  protect  her, 
it  was  not  easy  to  confine  her  to  one  room.  For,  with 
the  elasticity  of  youth,  she  had  risen  little  the  worse 
for  her  adventures. 

The  council  sat  long,  and  in  the  end  the  better  course 
seemed  to  be  to  invite  her  to  the  hay-field.    As  it  fell  out, 


90  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

a  small  matter  gave  a  natural  turn  to  the  proposal.  Her 
riding-dress — and  more  of  her  dress  than  that — was  so 
stained  and  torn  as  to  be  unwearable.  And  Bonne  could 
not  help  her,  for  the  child,  though  perfectly  formed, 
and  of  a  soft  prettiness,  was  cast  in  a  smaller  mould. 
Here,  then,  was  a  Countess  without  so  much  as  a  stock- 
ing, had  not  Bonne  thought  of  a  little  waiting-girl  of 
about  the  same  shape  and  size.  This  girl's  holiday 
attire  was  borrowed,  and  found  to  be  a  charming  fit — 
at  least  in  the  eyes  of  Roger.  For  the  lad,  because  the 
Countess  was  shy,  had  become,  after  a  sort,  her  protector. 

The  child's  timidity  was  at  standing  odds  with  her 
rank,  and  on  first  descending  in  this  dress  she  had  been 
on  the  point  of  tears,  as  infants  cry  when  they  think 
themselves  the  objects  of  ridicule.  A  very  little  and 
she  had  fled.  But  a  moment  later,  whether  she  read 
something  that  was  not  ridicule  in  the  lad's  eyes,  as 
she  walked  up  and  down  the  terrace,  or  youth  stirred 
in  her  and  raised  a  childish  pleasure  in  the  masquerade, 
she  preened  herself,  blushing,  and  presently  she  was 
showing  herself  off.  So  that  at  the  first  word  she  fell 
in  with  the  notion  of  completing  her  make-believe  by 
spending  the  day  in  the  hay. 

Fortunately,  Fulbert,  the  steward,  who  attended  her 
like  a  dog,  and  like  a  dog  glared  suspicion  on  all  who 
approached  her,  raised  no  objection.  And  about  three 
hours  before  noon  the  move  was  made.  Bonne  had 
gone  with  Mademoiselle  as  far  as  this  bridge,  where  she 
now  stood,  and  thence  had  sent  her  forward  with 
Roger  and  Fulbert  on  the  plea  that  she  must  herself 
attend  to  household  cares.  Nevertheless,  as  the  three 
receded  in  the  sun's  eye,  she  lingered  awhile  looking 
thoughtfully  after  them. 


THE  CAFl'AIN  OF  VLAYE.  91 

The  dainty  creature,  tripping  in  her  queer  travesty 
between  her  foster-father  and  Roger's  misshapen  form, 
showed  hke  a  fairy  between  two  gnomes.  Bonne 
watched  and  smiled,  and  presently  the  smile  became 
a  tear,  for  Roger's  sake.  She  had  other  and  more  press- 
ing cares,  other  and  heavier  burdens  this  morning;  but 
her  heart  was  warm  for  him.  She  had  been  mother  as 
well  as  sister  to  him,  and  the  reflection  that  his  de- 
formity— once  she  had  heard  a  peasant  call  him  goblin 
— ^would  probably  for  ever  set  him  apart  and  deprive 
him  of  the  joys  of  manhood  touched  her  with  grief  as 
she  stood. 

The  tear  was  still  on  her  lid  when  she  heard  a  step 
behind  her,  turned  and  saw  des  Ageaux — to  her  des 
Voeux.  He  read  trouble  in  her  clear,  youthful  face, 
fancied  she  was  in  fear,  and  paused  to  reassure  her. 
"Why  so  sad,  mademoiselle,"  he  asked,  "when  she" — 
with  a  good-humoured  nod  in  the  direction  of  the 
Countess — "who  has  so  much  more  to  fear,  trips  along 
gaily  ?    She  is  another  being  to-day . ' ' 

"I  have  others  to  fear  for,"  she  replied. 

"Your  brother?" 

She  fancied  that  he  was  about  to  press  her  to  bring 
him  to  Charles,  and  to  change  the  subject  she  avowed 
her  trouble.  Why,  heaven  knows;  for  though  her 
presence  of  mind  the  previous  evening  had  won  a  meed  of 
admiration  from  him,  he  had  made  no  sign. 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  him,"  she  confessed.  "I  was 
thinking  of  Roger.  I  was  thinking  how  sad  it  is — for 
him." 

He  understood  her.  "You  make  too  much  of  it,"  he 
said  lightly.  "He  has  health  and  strength,  and  a  good 
spirit  when  your  father  is  not  present.     His  arm  is  long, 


92  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

and  will  always  keep  his  head.  Have  you  never  heard 
what  M.  de  Gourdon,  Governor  of  the  March,  who  is — 
who  is  like  your  brother,  you  know — once  said  of  him- 
self? 'My  back?'  quoth  he  to  one  who  mentioned  it. 
'My  friends  mind  it  not,  and  my  enemies  have  never 
seen  it!'" 

She  flushed  and  a  light  came  into  her  eyes.  "Oh, 
brave!"  she  cried.  "Brave!  And  you  think  that 
Roger " 

"I  think  that  Roger  may  some  day  make  himself 
feared.  And  he  who  is  feared,"  the  Lieutenant  con- 
tinued, with  a  hah  cynical,  half  whimsical  smile,  "has 
ever  love  on  his  other  hand — as  surely  as  dog  follows 
the  hand  that  feeds  it." 

The  words  had  barely  left  his  lips  when  a  wolf-hound, 
whose  approach  they  had  not  noticed,  darted  upon 
them,  and,  leaping  up  at  the  Lieutenant's  face,  nearly 
overthrew  him.  Bonne  recoiled,  and  with  a  cry  looked 
round  for  help.  Then  she  perceived  that  it  was  with  joy, 
not  with  rage,  that  the  dog  was  beside  himself ;  for  again 
and  again,  with  sharp  shrill  cries  of  pleasure,  it  leapt  on 
the  Lieutenant,  striving  to  lick  his  hands,  his  face,  his 
hair.  In  vain  he  bade  it  "Down!  Down,  dog!"  In 
vain  he  struck  at  it.  It  set  its  paws  against  his  breast, 
and  though  often  repulsed,  as  often  with  slobbering 
mouth  and  hanging  tongue  sought  his  face. 

When  he  had  a  little  calmed  its  transports  and  got  it 
to  heel,  he  turned  to  her,  and  for  once  showed  an  em- 
barrassed countenance.  "It  is  a  dog,"  he  said,  "a  dog 
of  mine  that  has  followed  me." 

"I  see  that,"  she  replied,  smiling  with  something  of 
mischief  in  her  looks. 

"It  must  have  followed  me " 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE.  93 

"A  full  mile  this  morning,"  she  said,  stooping  and 
patting  the  hound,  which,  with  a  dubious  condescension, 
permitted  the  greeting.  "It  is  both  fed  and  dry.  And 
its  name  is " 

He  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Does  this  often  happen  to  you?"  she  continued, 
feeling  on  a  sudden  a  strange  freedom  with  him.  "To 
talk  of  dogs  and  they  appear?  Have  you  the  habit 
when  your  horse  falls  lame  of  tying  your  dog  to  a  tree, 
and  placing  a  sufficiency  of  food  and  water  by  it  to 
last  it  two  days?"  And  then,  when  he  did  not  answer 
her,  "Who  are  you,  M.  des  Voeux?"  she  said  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone.  "Whence  do  you  come,  and  what  is  your 
business?" 

"Have  I  not  told  you,"  he  answered,  "that  I  wish 
to  communicate  through  your  brother  with  the  Crocans? 
That  is  my  business." 

"But  you  did  not  know  when  you  came  to  us  that  I 
had  a  brother,"  she  replied,  "or  that  he  had  joined 
the  Crocans,  or  that  we  were  like  to  be  in  these  straits. 
So  that  you  did  not  come  for  that.  ^Vhy  did  you  come? ' ' 
confronting  him  with  clear  eyes.  "Are  we  to  count 
you  friend  or  enemy?  Be  frank  with  me  and  I  will  be 
frank  with  you." 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  first  gleam  of  admiration 
in  his  eyes.  But  he  hesitated.  In  the  candour  of  a 
young  girl  who,  laying  aside  coquetry  and  advantage, 
speaks  to  a  man  as  to  a  comrade  there  lies  a  charm  new 
to  him  who  has  not  known  a  sister;  more  new  to  him, 
more  surprising  to  him  whose  wont  has  lain  among  the 
women  of  a  court — women  whose  light  lives  and  fickle 
ambitions  mark  them  of  those  who  are  but  just  freed 
from  the  seraglio.    He  smiled  at  her,  openly  acknowl- 


94  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

edging  by  his  silence  and  his  air  that  he  had  a  secret ; 
acknowledging  also,  and  in  the  same  way,  that  he  held 
her  equal.  But  he  shook  his  head.  "In  a  little  time  I 
will  be  frank  with  you,  mademoiselle/'  he  said.  "It  is 
true  I  have  a  secret,  and  at  this  moment  I  cannot 
tell  it  safely." 

"You  do  not  trust  me?'' 

"I  trust  no  one  at  this  moment, "  he  answered  steadily. 

It  was  not  the  answer  she  expected.  She  had 
thought  he  would  quibble.  She  was  impressed  by  his 
firmness,  but  she  did  not  betray  the  feeling.  "Good!" 
she  said,  with  the  least  possible  lifting  of  her  head. 
"Then  you  must  not  expect  to  be  trusted,  or  that  I 
shall  bring  you  to  my  brother. ' ' 

"But  you  promised,  mademoiselle." 

"That  I  would  do  so  when  I  could  do  so — safely," 
she  retorted  with  mischievous  emphasis.  "It  is  your 
own  word,  sir,  and  I  shall  not  feel  that  I  can  do  so — 
safely — ^until  I  learn  who  you  are.  I  suppose  if  my 
brother  were  here  you  would  tell  him?" 

"Possibly." 

Her  colour  rose.  "You  would  tell  him,  and  you  will 
not  tell  me!"  she  cried  indignantly. 

"Now  you  are  angry,"  he  replied  smiling.  "How  can 
I  appease  you?" 

She  was  not  really  angry.  But  she  turned  on  her  heel, 
willing  to  let  him  think  it.  "By  hiding  yourself  until 
this  is  over,"  she  answered.  And  leaving  him  standing 
on  the  bridge,  where  he  had  found  her,  she  made  her  way 
back  to  the  house,  where  the  only  man  left  was  Solomon 
in  his  hutch  beside  the  gate.  He  was  an  old  servant, 
a  garrulous  veteran  of  high  renown  for  the  enormous 
fables  he  had  ever  on  his  lips— particularly  when  the 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE.  95 

Vicomte  reverted  to  the  greatness  of  the  house  before 
Coutras.  Mademoiselle  as  she  entered  paused  to  speak 
to  him.  "Have  you  seen  a  strange  dog,  Solomon?"  she 
asked. 

"This  morning,  my  lady?"  he  exclaimed  in  his  shrill 
voice.  "Strange  dog?  No,  not  I!  Has  one  frightened 
you?  Dog?  Few  dogs  I  see  these  sad  days,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  gesture  scornful  of  the  present.  "Dogs, 
indeed?  Times  were  when  we  had  packs  for  everything, 
for  boars,  and  wolves,  and  deer,  and  hares,  and  vermin, 
and" — pausing  in  sheer  inability  to  think  of  any  other 
possible  pack — "ay,  each  a  pack,  and  more  to  them  than 
I  could  ever  count,  or  the  huntsman  either!" 

"Yes,  I  know,  Solomon.  I  have  heard  you  say  so  at 
least.  But  you  have  not  seen  a  strange  dog  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"  The  morn !  No,  no,  my  lady !  But  last  night  I  mind 
one — ^was't  a  deer-hound?" 

"Yes,  a  deer-hound." 

"Well,  then,  I  can  tell  you,"  with  a  mysterious  nod, 
"and  no  one  else.  It  was  with  the  riders  who  brought 
the  young  lady.  But  I'm  mum,"  winking.  "Not  a 
word  will  they  get  out  of  me.  Secrets?  Ay,  I'm  the 
man  can  keep  a  secret.  Why,  I  remember,  talking  of 
secrets  and  lives — and  often  they  are  all  one " 

"But  what  became  of  the  deer-hound?"  she  asked, 
ruthlessly  cutting  him  short. 

"Became  of  the  dog?" — more  shrilly  than  usual — ^he 
was  a  little  hurt.  "Is  that  all  you  want?  It  went  with 
them  as  brought  it,  I  do  suppose.  It  didn't  stop,  any- 
wise. But  as  I  was  saying  about  secrets — the  secrets  I 
have  kept  in  old  days — when  there  was  no  family  had 
so  many  as  ours " 


96  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

But  she  was  gone.  She  had  discovered  what  she 
wanted.  And  she  was  midway  across  the  courtyard 
when  the  shrill  sound  of  a  hawk-whistle  caught  her  ear. 
Turning  she  went  through  the  gate  again,  and  listened 
— not  without  a  nervous  feeling.  Presently  she  could 
distinguish  the  dull  tramp  of  a  number  of  horses  moving 
on  the  sward,  the  gay  jingle  of  bit  and  spur,  and  mingled 
with  these  sounds  the  voices  of  a  number  of  persons 
talking  at  their  ease. 

Warmly  as  the  sun  shone,  she  was  aware  of  a  shiver; 
of  a  presentiment  that  gripped  and  chilled  her.  What- 
ever it  portended,  however,  whatever  misfortune  was  in 
the  air,  the  risk  could  not  now  be  evaded.  Already 
bright  patches  of  moving  colour  glanced  among  the 
trees  at  the  end  of  the  approach,  and  steel  points  glit- 
tered amid  the  foliage,  and  feathers  waved  gaily  above 
the  undergrowth.  She  had  barely  time  to  tell  Solomon 
to  run  and  apprise  her  father  of  the  arrival,  when  the 
head  of  the  cavalcade  wheeled,  talking  and  laughing, 
into  the  avenue,  and  her  sister,  who  rode  in  the  van  by 
the  side  of  M.  de  Vlaye,  espied  her  standing  before  the 
gate  and  waved  a  greeting. 

Behind  the  Abbess  rode  a  couple  of  women,  one  in  the 
lay  costume,  liberally  interpreted,  of  her  order,  the  other 
of  the  world  confessed;  following  close  on  their  heels 
half  a  dozen  horsemen  completed  the  first  party.  The 
young  Abbess  bore  a  hooded  hawk  on  her  wrist,  and 
the  tinkle  of  its  light  silver  bells  mingled  with  the 
ripple  of  her  voice  as  she  approached,  while  two  or 
three  pairs  of  coupled  hounds  ran  at  her  horse's  heels. 
A  httle  behind,  separated  from  this  select  company 
by  an  interval  of  two  score  yards,  followed  the  main 
body,  a  troop  of  some  forty  horse,  in  steel  caps  and 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE.  97 

corslets,  with  long  swords  swinging,  and  pistols  in  their 
holsters. 

A  more  picturesque  or  more  gallant  company,  as  they 
swept  by  threes  and  fours  into  sight  between  the  two 
grey  pillars  and  rode  towards  the  house  under  sun  and 
shade,  or  a  band  that  moved  with  a  lordlier  air,  it  had 
been  hard  to  find,  even  in  those  days  of  show  and 
pageantry,  when  men  wore  their  fortunes  on  their  backs. 
The  Captain  of  Vlaye,  stooping  his  sinewy  figure  to  his 
companion,  well  became  a  horse  that  moved  as  he  moved, 
and  caracoled  because  he  allowed  it.  His  dark,  keen 
face  would  have  been  as  handsome  as  his  form  but  for  a 
blemish.  In  some  skirmish  of  his  youth  he  had  lost  the 
sight  of  an  eye,  and  the  blind  orb  gave  his  face  a  hard 
look  which,  so  his  enemies  said,  brought  it  into  con- 
sonance with  his  character.  He  wore  upturned  mous- 
taches without  a  beard,  therein  departing  from  the 
mode  of  the  day.  But  his  hunting-dress  of  white  doeskin, 
with  a  fawn  hat  and  belt,  was  in  the  fashion,  and  his 
horse's  trappings  shone  almost  as  fine  as  the  riding-dress 
of  green  and  silver  which  set  off  his  companion's  tall 
figure  and  haughty  face.  In  first  youth  a  nose,  too  like 
her  father's,  and  something  over  large  in  Odette  de 
Villeneuve's  frame,  had  foreshadowed  charms  not  of  the 
most  feminine  or  the  first  order.  But  three  years  had 
supplied  the  carriage  and  the  ripened  and  fuller  con- 
tours that  made  her  what  she  now  was.  To-day,  if  it 
pleased  her  to  have  at  her  beck  one  whose  will  was  law, 
and  whose  stern  manners  invited  few  to  intimacy — 
and  in  truth  her  infatuation  for  the  successful  adven- 
turer knew  no  limits — he  on  his  side  found  his  account 
in  parading,  where  he  went,  a  woman  whose  beauty 
exceeded  even  her  birth,  and  fell  little  short  of  her  pride. 


98  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

And  she  was  content;  she  at  least  aimed  at  no  more 
than  setting  on  a  safer  basis  the  power  she  looked  to 
share.  It  was  she  who,  ignorant  that  her  brother  had 
joined  them,  had  mentioned  to  her  sister  Vlaye's  plan  of 
suppressing  the  Crocans.  That  he  had  any  other  plan, 
that  his  views  rose  higher  than  a  union  with  herself, 
that  he  hoped  by  a  bold  and  secret  stroke  not  only  to 
secure  what  he  had  gained  but  to  treble  his  resources — 
that  his  ambition,  passing  by  a  Villeneuve,  dared  to 
dream  of  an  alliance  with  the  ducal  house  of  Longueville 
— of  these  things  she  had,  as  yet,  no  inkling.  Not  a 
jot,  not  a  tittle.  Nor  was  she  likely  to  believe  in  their 
existence,  save  on  evidence  the  clearest  and  most  over- 
whelming.   . 

Bonne  knew  more.  She  knew  these  things ;  and,  as 
she  went  forward  to  meet  the  party,  and  after  greeting 
her  sister  turned  to  her  cavalier,  the  word  "Welcome" 
stuck  in  her  throat.  She  was  conscious  that  her  cheek 
grew  a  shade  paler  as  she  forced  the  word,  that  her 
knees  shook.  Her  fear  was  that  he  would  read  the 
signs. 

Ordinarily  he  would  not  have  remarked  them;  partly 
because  he  was  inured  to  meeting  cowed  looks,  and 
partly  because  a  careless  scorn — masked  where  the 
Vicomte  was  concerned  by  a  veneer  of  respect — ^was  all 
to  which  he  ever  treated  the  Abbess's  impoverished 
family.  Crook-backed  brother,  tongue-tied  sister,  and 
the  other  fool,  whose  restive  dislike  had  sometimes 
amused  him — he  held  them  all  in  equal  and  supreme 
contempt.  But  to-day  he  had  his  reasons  for  noting 
the  girl  more  particularly ;  and  the  shadow  of  ill-temper 
that  darkened  his  face  lifted  as  her  timid  eye  and  flutter- 
ing colour  confirmed  his  surmises. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE.  99 

"I  thank  you,  I  will  not  alight,"  he  replied.  "Your 
father  is  coming  to  the  gate?  M.  le  Vicomte  is  too 
kind,  mademoiselle.  But  that  being  so,  I  will  await  him 
here.'' 

The  Abbess,  with  an  air  of  patronage,  touched  Bonne's 
hair  with  the  tip  of  her  riding-switch.  "Child,  did  you 
sleep  in  your  clothes  last  night?"  she  said.  "Or  are 
you  making  hay  with  the  kitchen-maids?  See  her  blush, 
M.  de  Vlaye!  What  would  you  give  me  if  I  could  blush 
as  naively?"  And  her  eyes  rallied  him,  seeking  a  com- 
pliment in  his.  "But  Abbesses  who  have  been  to 
Court " 

"Carry  a  court  wherever  they  go,"  he  replied.  But 
his  look  did  not  leave  Bonne's  face.  The  Abbess's 
women  and  the  rest  of  the  company  had  drawn  rein  out 
of  earshot,  their  horses  making  long  necks  that  they 
might  reach  the  grass,  or  poking  their  heads  to  crop 
a  tender  shoot.  "I  cannot  alight,"  he  continued,  "for 
we  are  on  an  adventure,  mademoiselle.  I  might  almost 
say  a  pursuit." 

"Do  you  know,  child,"  her  sister  chimed  in,  "that 
Mademoiselle  de  Rochechouart  never  came  to  me  last 
night?  But  you  know  nothing  here — even,  I  daresay, 
that  I  expected  her.  How  should  you?  You  might  as 
well  live  in  a  hole  in  the  ground. " 

"She  never  came?"  Bonne  faltered,  for  the  sake  of 
saying  something.  The  blush  had  subsided,  leaving  her 
paler  than  before. 

"No,  did  I  not  say  so?  And  she  has  not  arrived  to- 
day," the  Abbess  continued,  flicking  her  horse's  mane 
with  her  jewelled  switch.  "But  some  of  her  people 
were  in  by  daylight  this  morning — from  Heaven  knows 
where — some   hiding-place   in  the  woods,  I  believe — 


100  THE  ABBESS  OF  VTAYE. 

making  such  a  to-do  as  you  would  not  credit.  If  thoy 
are  to  be  believed,  they  were  attacked  near  nightfall  by 
the  Cro  cans ' ' 

"By  the  Crocans,"  M.  de  ^1aye  repeated,  nodding 
darkly  at  Bonne.  He  knew  more  than  the  Abbess 
knew  of  Charles's  desperate  venture. 

"And  M.  de  Vlaye,"  the  Abbess  continued,  speaking 
in  the  negligent  fashion,  a  trifle  distant,  in  which  she 
always  addressed  her  family  in  his  presence,  "has  most 
kindly  sent  out  parties  in  search  of  her.  Moreover,  as 
I  came  this  way  on  the  same  errand,  he  fell  in  with  me, 
and  came  on — more,  I  believe,  for  her  sake  than  mine" — 
v^ith  a  look  that  called  for  contradiction — "to  make  in- 
quiries in  this  direction.  But  on  the  way — but  here  is 
rny  father.     Good  morning,  sir.     M.  de  \Qaye " 

"Has  been  waiting  some  time,  I  fear,"  the  Vicomte 
said  hurriedly.  He,  too,  was  not  free  from  embarrass- 
ment, but  he  hid  it  with  fair  success.  "WPiy  do  you  not 
alight  and  enter,  my  dear?" 

"Becau.se  we  have  business,  by  your  leave,  sir,"  Vlaye 
an-swered,  his  politeness  scarcely  covering  an  undertone 
of  meaning.  And  he  told  in  a  few  words — while  Bonne 
stood  listening  in  an  agony  of  su.5p»en.se — what  the  Abbess 
had  told  her.  "Fortunately,  after  I  fell  in  ^sith  your 
daughter  this  morning,"  he  proceeded,  "I  Piad  news  of 
the  Countess.  And  where  do  you  think,  M.  le  Vicomte, 
we  are  told  that  she  is?"  he  continued. 

Fortunately  the  Vicomte,  whose  hands  were  beginning 
to  tremble,  and  whose  colour  was  mounting  to  his 
\^Tirjkled  cheek,  could  not  immediately  find  his  voice. 
It  was  his  elder  daughter  who  took  on  herself  to  arj.swer. 
"Where  do  you  think,  sir?"  she  cried  gaily.  "In  your 
hay-meadows — sf)  M.  de  \Taye  says." 


THE  CAFfAIN  OF  VLAYE.  101 

"Mademoiselle  de  Rochechouart?    In  my  hay-mead- 
ows?" the  Vicomte  faltered. 
"Yes." 

"In  my  hay-meadows?    It  cannot  be." 
"  It  is  so — or  so  we  are  told. ' ' 


CHAPTER  VI. 


IN   THE   HAY-FIELD. 


The  Vicomte  gasped;  it  was  evident,  it  was  certain, 
that  M,  de  Vlaye  knew  all.  What  was  he  to  say,  what 
to  do?  While  Bonne,  though  her  ear  hung  upon  his  re- 
ply, was  conscious  only  of  a  desperate  search,  a  wild 
groping,  after  some  method  of  giving  the  alarm  to  those 
whom  it  concerned — to  Charles  lurking  in  the  barn  be- 
side the  water,  to  the  Countess  making  hay  for  sport  and 
thinking  no  evil.  She  had  heard  of  a  woman  who  in  such 
a  strait  sent  a  feather  which  put  quick  wits  on  the  alert. 
But  she  had  no  feather,  she  had  nothing,  and  if  she  had, 
at  her  first  word  of  withdrawing  M.  de  Vlaye,  she  knew, 
would  interpose.     At  last — 

"It  must  be!"  the  Vicomte  exclaimed,  taking  anew 
line  with  some  presence  of  ixdnd.  "But  I  would  not 
believe  it  1" 

"It  must  be?  what  must  be,  sir?"  his  daughter  Odette 
rejoined. 

"It  must  be  the  Countess!"  the  Vicomte  repeated  in 
a  tone  of  surprise  and  conviction,  not  ill  feigned.  He 
saw  that  to  persist  in  denying  the  truth — with  the  hay- 
field  in  sight — would  not  serve,  and  in  the  end  must 
cover  him  with  confusion.  "Dressed  in  that  fashion," 
he  continued,  "and  with  no  attendant  save  one  rough 

102 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD  103 

clown,  I — I  could  not  credit  her  story.  The  Countess 
of  Rochechouart  1     It  seems  incredible  even  now!" 

"Yes,  the  Countess  of  Rochechouart,"  M.  de  Vlaye 
replied  in  a  tone  which  proved  that  the  Vicomte's  sudden 
frankness  did  not  deceive  him.  "With  your  permission 
we  will  wait  on  her,  M.  le  Vicomte,"  he  continued  in  the 
same  tone,  "and  as  soon  as  horses  can  be  provided,  I 
will  escort  her  to  a  place  of  safety." 

The  Vicomte's  face  was  a  study  of  perplexity.  "If 
you  will  alight,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  will  send  and  an- 
nounce to  the  Countess — if  Countess  she  really  be — that 
you  are  here." 

For  an  instant  Bonne's  heart  stood  still.  If  M.  de 
Vlaye  dismounted  and  entered,  aU  things  were  possible. 
But  the  hope  was  dashed  to  the  ground  forthwith.  "I 
thank  you, ' '  Vlaye  answered  somewhat  grimly,  "but  with 
your  permission,  M.  le  Vicomte,  to  business  first.  We 
will  go  to  the  meadows  at  once.  It  is  not  fitting  that  the 
Countess  should  be  left  for  a  minute  longer  than  is 
necessary  in  a  place  so  ill  guarded.  And,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  things  lost  once  are  sometimes  lost  twice. " 

The  Vicomte's  nose  twitched  with  rage;  he  was  not 
a  meek  man.  He  understood  M.  de  Vlaye's  insinua- 
tion, he  knew  that  M.  de  Vlaye  knew;  but  he  was 
helpless.  On  the  threshold  of  his  own  house,  on  the 
spot  where  his  ancestors'  word  had  been  law  for  gen- 
erations— or  a  blow  had  followed  the  word — he  stood 
impotent  before  this  clever,  upstart  soldier  who  held  him 
at  mercy.  And  this  the  Abbess ,  had  her  affection  for 
him  been  warm  or  her  nature  delicate,  must  have  felt. 
Without  a  word  spoken  or  a  syllable  of  explanation,  she 
must  have  perceived  that  she  was  witnessing  her  family's 
shame,  and  that  her  part  in  the  scene  was  not  with  them. 


104  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

But  she,  of  them  all,  was  the  most  in  the  dark,  and  her 
thoughts  were  otherwise  bent.  "You  are  very  fearful 
for  the  young  lady,  M.  de  Vlaye,"  she  said,  turning  to 
him,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  mock  offence.  "I  do 
not  remember  that  you  have  ever  been  so  over  careful 
for  me." 

He  bent  his  head  and  muttered  something  of  which 
her  sister  caught  not  a  word.  Then,  "But  we  must 
not  waste  time,"  he  continued  briskly.  "Let  us — with 
the  Vicomte's  permission — to  the  field!  To  the  field!" 
And  he  turned  his  horse  as  he  spoke  into  the  sled-road 
that  led  around  the  courtyard  wall;  and  by  a  gesture 
he  bade  his  men  follow.  It  was  evident  to  Bonne, 
evident  to  her  father,  that  he  had  had  a  spy  on  the 
house,  and  knew  where  his  quarry  harboured. 

The  girl  wondered  whether  by  flying  through  the 
house  and  dropping  from  the  corner  of  the  garden 
wall  she  could  even  now  give  the  alarm.  Then  M.  le 
Vicomte  spoke.  "I  will  come  with  you,"  he  said  in  a 
surly  tone  that  betrayed  his  sense  of  his  position.  "  The 
times  are  indeed  out  of  joint,  and  persons  out  of  their 
places,  but — Solomon,  my  staff!  Daughter,"  to  the 
Abbess,  "a  hold  of  your  stirrup-leather !  It  is  but  a 
step,  and  I  can  still  walk  so  far.  If  the  field  be  unsafe 
for  the  guest," — he  added  grimly — "it  is  fit  the  host 
should  share  the  danger." 

Bonne  could  have  blessed  him  for  the  thought,  for  his 
offer  bound  the  party  to  a  walking  pace,  and  something 
might  happen.  Vlaye,  beyond  doubt,  had  the  same 
thought.  But  without  breaking  openly  with  the  Vicomte 
— which  for  various  reasons  he  was  loth  to  do — ^he  could 
not  reject  his  company  nor  outpace  him. 

He  raised  no  objection,  therefore,  and  in  displeased 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD.  105 

sUence  the  Vicomte  walked  beside  his  daughter's  horse, 
Bonne  accompanying  him  on  the  other  hand.  She 
knew  more  than  he,  and  had  reason  to  fear  more; 
she  was  almost  sick  with  anxiety.  But  he,  perhaps, 
suffered  more.  Forced  on  his  own  ground  to  do  that 
which  he  did  not  wash  to  do,  forced  to  play  a  sorry  farce, 
he  felt,  as  he  trudged  in  the  van  of  the  party,  that  he 
walked  the  captive  in  a  Roman  triumph.  And  he  could 
have  smitten  the  Captain  of  Vlaye  across  the  face. 

They  passed  only  too  quickly  from  the  shelter  of  the 
house  to  the  open  meadows  and  the  hot  sunshine,  and 
so  over  the  stone  bridge.  Bonne  knew  that  at  this  point 
they  must  become  visible  to  the  workers  in  the  hay-field, 
and  she  counted  on  an  interval  of  a  few  minutes  during 
which  the  fugitives  might  take  steps  to  hide  themselves, 
or  even  to  get  over  the  river  and  bury  themselves  in  the 
woods.  She  could  have  cried,  therefore,  when,  without 
apparent  order,  a  party  from  the  rear  cantered  past  the 
leaders  and,  putting  their  horses  into  a  sharp  hand- 
gallop,  preceded  them  in  their  advance  upon  the 
panic-stricken  haymakers,  in  the  midst  of  whom  they 
drew  rein  in  something  less  than  a  minute. 

The  Vicomte  halted  as  the  meaning  of  the  manoeuvre 
broke  upon  him,  and,  striking  his  staff  into  the  ground, 
he  followed  them  with  his  eyes.  "You  seem  fearful 
indeed,"  he  growled,  his  high  nose  wrinkled  with  anger. 

"Things  happen  very  quickly  at  times,"  Vlaye 
answered,  ignoring  the  tone. 

"Take  care,  sir,  take  care!"  the  Abbess  of  Vlaye  cried, 
addressing  her  lover.  She  little  thought  in  her  easy 
insouciance  how  near  the  truth  she  was  treading.  "If 
you  show  yourseK  so  very  anxious  for  the  Countess's 
safety,  I  warn  you  I  shall  grow  jealous." 


106  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"You  have  seen  her/'  M.  de  Vlaye  answered  in  a  low 
tone,  meant  only  for  her  ear;  and  he  hung  slightly  to- 
wards her.  "  You  know  how  httle  cause  you  have  to 
fear." 

" Fear? ' '  the  Abbess  retorted  rather  sharply.  "Know, 
sir,"  with  a  quick  defiant  glance,  "that  I  fear  no  one!" 

Apparently  the  handful  of  riders  who  had  preceded 
the  main  body  had  no  order  but  to  stand  guard  over  the 
workers.  For  having  halted  in  the  midst  of  the  startled 
servants,  who  gazed  on  them  in  stupefaction,  they 
remained  motionless  in  their  saddles.  Meanwhile  the 
Vicomte,  with  a  surly  face,  was  drawing  slowly  up  to 
them.  When  no  more  than  thirty  or  forty  paces  divided 
the  two  parties,  the  leader  of  the  van  wheeled  about,  and 
trotting  to  M.  de  Vlaye's  side,  saluted  him. 

"I  do  not  see  them,  my  lord,"  he  muttered  in  a  low 
tone. 

The  captain  of  Vlaye  reined  in  his  horse,  and  sitting 
at  ease,  cast  an  eagle  glance  over  the  terrified  haymakers, 
who  had  instinctively  fallen  into  three  or  four  groups. 
In  one  part  of  the  field  the  hay  had  been  got  into  heaps, 
but  these  were  of  small  size,  and  barely  adequate  to  the 
hiding  of  a  child.  Nevertheless,  look  where  he  would — 
and  his  lowering  brow  bespoke  his  disappointment — he 
could  detect  no  one  at  all  resembling  a  Countess.  A 
moment,  and  his  glance  passed  from  the  open  meadow 
to  the  ruined  buildings,  which  stood  on  the  brink  of  the 
stream.     It  remained  fixed  on  them. 

"Search  that!"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  And  raising 
his  hand  he  pointed  to  the  old  barn.  "They  must  be 
there  1     Go  about  it  carefully,  Ampoule. ' ' 

The  man  he  addressed  turned,  and  summoning  his 
party,  cantered  across  the  sward — never  so  green  as 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD.  107 

after  mowing — towards  the  building.  As  the  riders 
drew  near  the  river,  Bonne  could  command  herself  no 
longer.  She  uttered  a  low  groan.  Her  face  bespoke 
her  anguish. 

M.  de  Vlaye  did  not  see  her  face — it  was  turned  from 
him — but  he  caught  the  sound  and  understood  it.  "The 
sun  is  hot,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  polite  irony,  "You  find 
it  so,  mademoiselle?  Doubtless  the  Countess  has  sought 
protection  from  it — in  the  barn.  She  will  be  there,  take 
my  word  for  it!" 

Bonne  made  no  reply.  She  could  not  have  spoken  for 
her  life;  and  he  and  they  watched,  shading  their  eyes 
from  the  sun,  she,  poor  girl,  with  a  hand  which  shook. 
The  horsemen  were  by  this  time  near  the  end  of  the 
building,  and  all  but  one  proceeded  to  alight.  The  rest 
were  in  the  act  of  delivering  up  their  reins,  and  one  had 
already  vanished  within  the  building,  when  in  full  view 
of  the  company,  who  were  watching  from  the  middle 
of  the  field,  a  man  sprang  from  an  opening  at  the  other 
end  of  the  barn,  reached  in  three  bounds  the  brink  of 
the  stream,  and  even  as  Vlaye 's  shout  of  warning  startled 
the  field,  plunged  from  the  bank,  and  was  lost  to  sight. 

"Hola!  Hola!"  M.  de  Vlaye  cried  in  stentorian  tones, 
and,  with  his  rowels  in  his  horse's  flanks,  he  was  away 
racing  to  the  spot  before  his  followers  had  taken  the 
alarm.  The  next  moment  they  were  thundering  emu- 
lously  at  his  heels,  their  charge  shaking  the  earth. 
Even  the  men  who  had  alighted  beside  the  barn,  and  as 
yet  knew  nothing  of  the  evasion,  saw  that  something 
was  wrong,  took  the  alarm,  and  hurried  round  the 
building  to  the  river. 

"He  is  there!"  cried  one,  as  they  pulled  up  along  the 
bank  of  the  stream.    And  the  speaker,  in  his  desire  to 


108         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

show  his  zeal,  wheeled  his  horse  about  so  suddenly  that 
he  well-nigh  knocked  down  his  neighbour. 

"No,  there!  There!"  cried  another.  And  "There!" 
cried  a  third,  as  the  fugitive  dived,  otter  fashion,  the 
willows  of  the  stream  affording  him  some  protection. 

Suddenly  M.  de  Vlaye's  voice  rang  above  all.  "After 
him!"  he  cried.  "After  him,  fools,  and  seize  him  on  the 
other  side!" 

In  a  twinkling  three  or  four  of  the  more  courageous 
forced  their  horses  into  the  stream,  and  began  to  swim 
across.  Sixty  yards  below  the  spot  where  he  had 
entered  the  water,  the  swimmer's  head  could  be  seen. 
He  was  being  borne  on  a  current  towards  a  willow-bed 
which  projected  from  the  opposite  bank,  and  offered  a 
hiding-place.  With  wild  cries  those  who  had  not  entered 
the  stream  followed  him  along  the  bank,  jostling  and 
crossing  one  another,  and  marked  him  here  and  marked 
him  there,  while  the  baying  of  the  excited  hounds,  re- 
strained by  their  couples,  filled  the  woods  beyond  the 
river  with  the  fierce  music  of  the  chase. 

Meantime  the  Vicomte  and  his  younger  daughter 
remained  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  meadow;  for  the 
Abbess's  horse  had  carried  her  after  the  others,  whether 
she  would  or  no,  with  her  hawk  clinging  and  screaming 
on  her  sleeve.  Of  the  two  who  remained,  the  Vicomte 
was  in  a  high  rage.  To  be  used  after  this  fashion  by 
his  guests!  To  see  strangers  taking  the  law  into  their 
own  hands  on  his  land!  To  be  afoot  while  hireling 
troopers  spurned  his  own  clods  in  his  face,  and  all  without 
leave  or  license,  all  where  he  and  his  forebears  had  ex- 
ercised the  low  justice  and  the  high  for  centuries!  It 
was  too  much! 

"What  is  it?    Who  is  it?"  he  cried,  adding  in  his 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD.  109 

passion  oaths  and  execrations  then  too  common.  "That 
is  not  the  Countess  1     Are  they  mad?" 

" It  is  Charles, ' '  she  answered,  weeping  bitterly.  "He 
was  hiding  there.  And  he  thought  that  they  were  in 
search  of  him.  Oh,  they  will  kill  him!  They  will  kill 
him!" 

"Charles?"  the  Vicomte  exclaimed,  and  stood  turned 
to  stone.     "Charles?" 

"Yes!'  she  panted.  "And,  oh,  sir,  a  word!  He  is 
your  son,  and  a  word  may  save  him!  He  has  done 
nothing — nothing  that  they  should  hunt  him  like  a  rat!" 

But  the  Vicomte  was  another  man  now,  moved, 
wrought  on  by  Heaven  knows  what  devils  of  pride  and 
shame.  "My  son!"  he  cried,  his  rage  diverted.  "That 
my  son?  You  lie,  girl!"  coarsely.  "He  is  no  son  of 
mine.  You  wander.  It  is  some  skulking  Crocan  they 
have  unharboured.  Son  of  mine?  Hiding  on  my  land? 
No!     You  rave,  girl!" 

"Oh,  sir!"  she  panted. 

"Not  a  word!"  He  gripped  her  wrist  fiercely  and 
forced  her  to  silence.  "Do  you  hear  me?  Not  a  word. 
He  is  no  son  of  mine  I ' ' 

She  clung  to  him,  still  imploring  him,  still  trying  to 
soften  him.  But  he  shook  her  off,  roughly,  brutally, 
raising  his  stick  to  her;  and,  blinded  by  her  tears,  unable 
to  do  more,  she  sank  to  the  ground  and  buried  her  face, 
that  she  might  not  see,  in  a  mass  of  hay.  He,  without 
a  word,  turned  his  back  on  her,  on  the  crowd  beside  the 
river,  on  the  groups  of  frightened  haymakers — turned 
his  back  on  all  and  strode  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
chateau,  with  those  devils  of  shame  and  pride,  which 
he  had  pampered  so  long,  riding  him  hard.  He  had 
drained  at  last  the  cup  of  humiliation  to  the  dregs. 


110  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

He  had  seen  his  son  hunted  Uke  a  beast  of  vermin  on  his 
own  land  in  his  presence.  And  his  one  desire  was  to 
be  gone.  Rage  with  the  cause  of  this  last  and  worst 
disgrace  dried  up  all  natural  feeling,  all  thought  for  his 
flesh  and  blood,  all  pity.  He  cared  not  whether  his  son 
lived  or  died.  His  only  longing  was  to  escape  in  his 
own  person;  to  be  gone  from  the  place  and  scene  of 
degradation,  to  set  himself  once  more  in  a  position,  to 
— to  be  himself! 

Tliere  are  tones  of  the  voice  that  in  the  lowest  depth 
inspire  something  of  confidence.  Bonne,  as  she  lay 
crushed  under  the  weight  of  her  misery,  with  the  merci- 
less sun  beating  down  upon  her  neck,  heard  such  a  tone 
whispering  low  in  her  ear. 

"Lie  still,  mademoiselle,"  it  murmured.  "Lie  still  1 
Where  you  are,  you  are  unseen,  and  I  must  speak  to  you. 
The  man,  whoever  he  is,  is  taken.  They  have  seized 
him." 

She  tried  to  rise.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  held  her  down. 

"I  must  go!"  she  gasped,  still  struggling  to  rise.  "I 
must  go !     It  is  my  brother ! ' ' 

The  Lieutenant — for  he  it  was — muttered,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  an  oath.  "Your  brother!"  he  said.  "It  is 
your  brother,  is  it?  Ah,  if  you  had  trusted  me!  But 
all  is  not  lost!  Listen!"  he  continued  urgently.  "M. 
de  Vlaye  has  bidden  the  men  who  have  taken  him — 
on  the  farther  side  of  the  river — to  convey  him  along 
that  bank  to  the  ford,  and  so  by  the  road  to  Vlaye.  And 
— will  you  trust  me  now,  mademoiselle?" 

"I  will,  I  will!"  she  sobbed.  She  showed  him  for  one 
moment  her  tear-stained,  impassioned  face.  "If  you 
will  help  me!     If  you  will  help  my  brother!" 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD.  Ill 

"I  willl"  he  said,  and  then,  and  abruptly,  he  laid  his 
hand  on  her  and  violently  pressed  her  down.  "Be 
stUl !"  he  muttered  in  a  tone  of  sharp  warning.  "I  have 
no  more  wish  to  be  seen  by  Vlaye  than  your  brother  had ! ' ' 
Lying  beside  her,  he  peeped  warily  over  the  hay  by 
which  he  was  partly  hidden;  a  slight  hollow  in  which 
that  particular  cock  rested  served  to  shelter  them 
somewhat,  but  the  screen  was  slight.  "I  fear  they  are 
coming  this  way,"  he  continued,  his  voice  not  quite 
steady.  "I  would  I  had  my  horse  here,  and  sound, 
and  I  would  trouble  them  little.  But  all  is  not  lost,  all 
is  not  lost,"  he  repeated  slowly,  "till  their  hands  are 
on  usl     Nor,  may-be,  even  then!" 

She  understood,  and  lay  trembling  and  hiding  her  face, 
unable  to  face  this  new  terror.  The  thunder  of  hoofs, 
coming  nearer  and  nearer,  once  more  shook  the  earth. 
The  horsemen  were  returning  from  the  river. 

"Lie  lowl"  he  repeated,  more  coolly.  "They  have 
spied  the  Countess.  I  feared  they  would.  And  they 
are  hot  foot  after  her — so  hoi  And  we  are  saved  1 
Yes,"  he  continued,  peeping  again  and  more  boldly, 
"we  are  saved,  I  think.  They  have  stopped  her,  just 
as  Roger  and  her  man — clever  Roger,  he  will  make  a 
general  yet — were  about  to  pass  her  over  the  bridge. 
Another  minute  and  they  had  got  her  to  cover  in  the 
house,  and  it  had  been  my  fate  to  be  taken."    ' 

She  did  not  answer,  her  agitation  was  too  great.  And 
after  a  brief  silence  during  which  the  Lieutenant  watched 
what  went  forward  at  the  end  of  the  meadow:  "Now, 
mademoiselle,"  he  said  in  a  more  gentle  tone,  "it  is  for 
the  Countess  I  want  your  help.  I  will  answer  for  your 
brother.  If  no  accident  befall  him  he  shall  be  free  be- 
fore many  hours  are  over  his  head.     Remember  that  I 


112  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

But  with  Mademoiselle  de  Rochechouart — if  she  be  once 
removed  to  Vlaye,  and  cast  into  this  man's  power,  it 
will  go  hard.  She  is  a  child,  little  able  to  resist.  Do 
you  go  to  her,  support  her,  speak  for  her,  fight  for  her 
even — only  gain  time.  Gain  time!  He  will  not  resort 
to  violence  at  once,  or  I  am  mistaken.  He  will  not  drag 
her  away  by  force  until  he  has  exhausted  all  other  means. 
He  will  suffer  her  to  stay  awhile  if  you  play  your  part 
well.     And  you  must  play  it  well!" 

"I  will!"  Bonne  cried,  all  her  forces  rallied  by  hope. 
"I  do  not  know  who  you  are,  but  save  my  brother " 

"I  will  save  him!" 

"And  I  will  bless  you!" 

"Do  you  save  the  Countess,  and  she  will  bless  you!" 
he  answered  cheerfully.  "Now  to  her,  mademoiselle, 
and  do  not  leave  her.  Go!  Show  yourself  as  brave 
there  as  here,  and " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  as  she  rose  his 
hand,  through  some  accident,  or  some  impulse  that  sur- 
prised him — for  such  weaknesses  were  not  in  his  nature 
— met  hers  through  the  hay  and  clasped  it.  The  girl 
reddened  to  the  brow,  sprang  up,  and  in  a  trice  was 
hastening  across  the  field  towards  the  crowd  that  in  a 
confused  medley  of  horse  and  foot,  peasants  and  troopers, 
was  gathered  about  the  stone  bridge  which  spanned  the 
brook.  The  sun  beat  hotly  down  on  the  little  mob,  but 
in  the  interest  of  the  scene  which  was  passing  in  their 
midst  no  one  thought  twice  of  the  heat. 

Bonne's  spirits  were  in  a  tumult.  She  hardly  knew 
what  she  thought  or  how  she  felt,  or  what  she  was  going 
to  do. 

But  one  thing  she  knew.  On  one  thing  she  set  her 
foot  with  every  step,  and  that  was  fear.     A  new  courage, 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD.  113 

and  a  new  feeling,  filled  the  girl  with  an  excitement  half- 
painful,  half-delightful.  Whence  this  was  she  did  not 
ask  herseK,  nor  why  she  rested  so  confidently  on  the 
guarantee  of  her  brother's  safety,  which  an  untried 
stranger  had  given  her.  It  was  enough  that  he  had 
given  it.     She  did  not  go  beyond  that. 

When  she  came,  hot  and  panting,  to  the  skirts  of  the 
crowd,  she  found  that  she  must  push  her  way  between 
the  horses  of  the  troopers  if  she  would  see  anything  of 
what  was  passing.  In  the  act  she  noticed  that  half 
the  men  were  grinning,  the  others  exchanging  sly  looks 
and  winks.  But  she  was  through  at  last.  Now  she 
could  see  what  was  afoot. 

On  the  bridge,  three  paces  before  her,  stood  M.  de 
Vlaye  with  his  back  to  her.  He  had  dismounted,  and 
had  his  hat  in  his  hand.  Beyond  him,  standing  at  bay, 
as  it  seemed,  against  the  low  side  wall  of  the  bridge,  was 
the  Countess,  her  small  face  white,  and  puckered,  and 
sullen,  and  behind  her  again  stood  Roger,  and  Fulbert, 
the  steward,  with  a  wild-beast  glare  in  his  eyes. 

"Surely,  mademoiselle,"  Bonne  heard  M.  de  Vlaye  say 
in  honeyed  accents,  as  she  emerged  from  the  crowd, 
"surely  it  were  better  you  mounted  here " 

"No!" 

"And  rode  to  the  chateau.  And  then  at  your  lei- 
sure  " 

"No,  I  thank  you.     I  will  walk." 

"But,  Countess,  you  are  not  safe,"  he  persisted,  "on 
foot  and  in  the  open,  after  what  has  passed." 

"Then  I  will  go  to  the  chateau,"  she  replied,  "but  I 
can  walk,  I  thank  you. "  It  was  strange  to  see  the  firm- 
ness, ay,  and  dignity,  that  awoke  in  her  in  this  extremity. 

"That,  of  course,"  M.  de  Vlaye  replied  lightly.     "Of 


114  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

course.  But  seeing  the  Abbess  on  horseback,  I  thought 
that  you  might  prefer  to  ride  with  her " 

"It  is  but  a  step." 

"And  I  am  walking,"  Bonne  struck  in,  pushing  to  the 
front.  "  I  will  go  with  the  Countess  to  the  house."  She 
spoke  with  a  firmness  which  surprised  herself,  and  cer- 
tainly surprised  M.  de  Vlaye,  who  had  not  seen  her  at  his 
elbow.  He  hesitated,  and  partly  in  view  of  the  Count- 
ess's attitude,  partly  of  the  fact  that  he  had  not  pre- 
cisely defined  his  next  step  if  he  got  her  mounted— he 
gave  way. 

"By  all  means,"  he  said.  "And  we  will  form  your 
guard." 

Bonne  passed  her  arm  round  the  young  Countess. 
"Come,"  she  said.  "I  see  my  sister  has  preceded  us  to 
the  house.  The  sun  is  hot,  and  the  sooner  we  are  under 
cover  the  better." 

It  was  not  the  heat  of  the  sun,  however,  that  had 
driven  the  Abbess  from  the  scene,  but  a  spirit  of  temper. 
She  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth — as  yet.  But  the 
fuss  which  M.  de  Vlaye  seemed  bent  on  making  about 
the  little  countess  piqued  her,  and  after  looking  on  a 
minute  or  two,  and  finding  herself  still  left  in  the  back- 
ground, she  had  let  her  jealousy  have  vent,  had  stmck 
spur  to  her  horse  and  ridden  back  to  the  house  in  a  rage. 
This  was  the  last  thing  she  would  have  done  had  her 
eyes  been  open.  Had  she  guessed  how  welcome  to  her 
admirer  her  retreat  at  that  moment  was,  she  would 
have  risked  a  hundred  sunstrokes  before  she  went ! 

She  had  no  notion  of  the  real  situation,  however,  and 
Bonne,  who  had,  and  with  a  woman's  wit  saw  in  her  a 
potent  ally,  was  too  late  to  call  her  back,  though  she 
longed  to  do  it.    Between  the  bridge  and  the  house-gate 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD.  115 

lay  three  hundred  yards,  every  yard,  it  seemed  to  Bonne, 
a  yard  of  peril  to  her  charge ;  and  the  girl  nerved  herself 
accordingly.  For  Vlaye's  darkening  face  sufficiently 
declared  his  perplexity.  At  any  instant,  at  any  point, 
he  might  throw  off  the  mask  of  courtesy,  use  force,  and 
ride  off  with  his  prey.     And  what  could  she  do? 

Only  with  a  brave  face  walk  slowly,  slowly,  talking  as 
she  went!  Talkmg  and  making  believe  to  be  at  ease; 
repressing  both  the  treacherous  flutter  of  her  own  heart 
and  the  little  Countess's  tendency  to  start  at  every 
movement  M.  de  Vlaye  made — as  the  lamb  starts  when 
the  wolf  bares  its  teeth!  Bonne  felt  that  to  let  him 
see  that  they  expected  violence  w^as  to  invite  it;  and 
though,  if  he  made  a  movement  to  seize  her  companion, 
she  was  prepared  to  cling  and  scream  and  fight  with  her 
very  nails — she  knew  that  such  methods  were  the  last 
desperate  resource,  to  resort  to  which  portended  defeat. 

He  walked  abreast  of  them,  his  rein  on  his  arm,  his 
haughty  head  bent.  A  little  behind  them  on  the  left 
side  walked  Roger  and  the  Countess's  steward.  Behind 
these  again,  at  a  short  distance,  followed  the  mob  of 
troopers,  grinning  and  nudging  one  another,  and  scarce 
deigning  to  hide  their  amusement. 

Bonne  guessed  all,  yet  she  talked  bravely.  "It  is 
quite  an  adventure!"  she  said  brightly.  "We  did  but 
half  beheve  it,  M.  de  Vlaye!  Until  you  told  us,  we 
thought  mademoiselle  must  be  romancing.  That  she 
could  not  be — oh,  no,  it  seemed  impossible  that  she 
could  be  the  real  Countess!" 

"Indeed?"  M.  de  Vlaye  answered,  measuring  with 
his  keen  eye  the  distance  to  the  corner  of  the  court- 
yard. The  girl's  chatter  embarrassed  him.  He  could 
not  weigh  quite  coolly  the  chances  and  the  risks. 


116  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"It  was  after  nine  o'clock — yes,  it  must  have  been 
nearer  midnight  I"  Bonne  continued,  with  that  woman's 
power  of  dissembhng  which  puts  men's  acting  to  shame. 
"It  was  quite  an  alarm  when  she  camel  We  thought 
we  were  to  be  robbed." 

"It  is  for  that  reason,"  Vlaye  said  smoothly,  "I  wish 
the  Cbuntess  to  be  placed  in  safety." 

"Or  that  it  was  the  Crocans " 

"Precisely — it  might  have  been.  And  therefore  I 
wish  her  to  place  herself  without  delay " 

"In  proper  clothes!"  Bonne  exclaimed  cheerfully. 
"Of  course!  So  she  must,  M.  de  Vlaye,  and  this 
minute!  To  think  of  the  Countess  of  Rochechouart " — 
she  laughed,  and  affectionately  drew  the  girl  nearer  to 
her — "making  hay  in  a  waiting-woman's  clothes!  No 
wonder  that  she  did  not  wish  to  be  seen!" 

M.  de  Vlaye  looked  at  the  chatterer  askance,  and 
mechanically  gnawed  his  moustache.  He  believed, 
nay,  he  was  almost  sure  that  she  knew  all  and  was 
playing  with  him.  If  so  she  was  playing-  so  successfully 
that  here  they  were  at  the  corner  of  the  courtyard  and 
he  no  nearer  a  decision.  They  had  but  to  pass  along 
one  wall,  turn,  and  in  forty  paces  they  would  be  at  the 
gate.  He  must  make  up  his  mind  promptly,  then! 
And,  curse  her!  she  talked  so  fast  that  he  could  not 
bring  his  mind  to  it,  or  weigh  the  emergencies.  If  he 
seized  the  girl  here 

"Roger  should  not  have  let  her  try  to  cross  the  brook, 
M.  de  Vlaye,  should  he?"  Bonne  babbled.  "He  should 
have  known  better.  Now  she  has  wet  her  feet  and 
must  change  her  shoes!  Yes,"  plaj^fully,  "you  must, 
mademoiselle." 

"I  will,"  the  Countess  muttered  with  shaking  lips. 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD.  117 

One  of  the  troopers  who  had  been  of  the  expedition 
the  day  before,  and  whom  the  situation  tickled,  laughed 
on  a  sudden  outright.  M.  de  Vlaye  half  halted,  turned 
and  looked  back  in  wrath.  Was  he  going  to  give  the 
signal?  Bonne's  arm  shook.  But  no,  he  turned  again. 
And  they  were  almost  at  the  second  corner;  now  they 
turned  it,  and  her  eyes  sought  the  gate  greedily,  to 
learn  who  awaited  them  there.  If  the  Vicomte  was 
there,  and  her  sister,  it  was  so  much  in  her  favour.  He 
would  hardly  dare  to  carry  the  girl  off  by  force  under 
their  eyes. 

But  they  were  not  there.  Even  Solomon  was  in- 
visible; probably  he  had  taken  the  Abbess's  horse  to 
the  stable.  Bonne  was  left  to  her  own  resources,  there- 
fore, to  her  own  wits;  and  at  the  gate,  at  the  moment 
of  interest,  at  the  last  moment,  the  pinch  would  come. 

And  still,  but  with  a  dry  throat,  she  talked.  "To 
leave  the  sun  for  the  shade!"  she  cried  with  a  prodigious 
sigh  as  the  western  wall  of  the  courtyard  intervened 
and  protected  them  from  the  sun's  heat.  "Is  it  not 
delightful!  It  was  almost  worth  while  to  be  so  hot, 
to  feel  so  cool!    Are  you  cool,  M.  de  Vlaye?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  grimly,  "but " 

"  Sommes-nous  au  milieu  du  bois?  " 

she  sang,  cutting  him  short — they  were  within  seven  or 
eight  paces  of  the  gateway,  and  she  fancied  that  his 
face  was  growing  hard,  that  she  detected  the  move- 
ments of  a  man  preparing  to  make  his  leap — 

"  Sommes-nous  k  la  rive? 
Sommes-nous  au  milieu  du  bois? 
Sommes-nous  h  la  rive? 

A  la  rive?  A  la  rive!"  she  chanted,  her  arm  closing 
more  tightly  about  the  Countess.     "A  la  rive!" 


118  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

With  the  last  word — Pouf! — she  thrust  the  child 
towards  the  open  gateway,  and  by  the  same  movement 
dropped  on  her  knees  in  front  of  M.  de  Vlaye,  com- 
pletely thwarting  his  first  instinctive  impulse,  which 
was  to  snatch  at  the  Countess.  ''It  is  my  pin!"  she 
cried,  rising  as  quickly  as  she  had  knelt — ^the  whole 
seemed  but  one  movement.  "Pardon,  M.  de  Vlaye,' 
she  continued,  but  by  that  time  the  Countess  was  twenty 
paces  away,  and  half-way  across  the  court.  "Did  I 
interrupt  you?  How  lucky  to  find  it!  I  must  have 
lost  it  yesterday!" 

He  did  not  speak,  but  his  eyes  betrayed  his  rage — 
rage  not  the  less  that  his  men  had  witnessed  and  under- 
stood the  manoeuvre;  nay,  dared  by  a  titter  to  betray 
their  amusement.  For  an  instant  he  was  tempted  to 
seize  her  and  crush  the  cursed  pride  out  of  her — he  to  be 
outwitted  before  his  people  by  a  woman!  Or  why 
should  he  not  take  her  a  hostage  in  the  other's  room? 

Then  he  remembered  that  he  needed  no  hostage;  he 
had  one  already.  In  a  voice  that  drove  the  blood  from 
her  cheeks,  "Take  care!  Take  care,  mademoiselle!"  he 
muttered.  "Sometimes  one  pays  too  much  for  such  a 
trifle  as  a  pin.  You  might  have  hurt  yourself,  stooping 
so  suddenly!     Or  hurt — ^your  brother!" 

Roger  could  no  longer  keep  silence.  "I  can  take  care 
of  myself,  M.  de  Vlaye,"  he  said,  "and  of  my  sister 
also,  I  would  have  you  know." 

But  M.  de  Vlaye  had  himself  in  hand  again,  "It 
was  not  to  you  I  referred,"  he  said  coldly  and  con- 
temptuously.    "Take  me  to  your  father." 

They  found  the  Vicomte  awaitmg  them  on  the  draw- 
bridge at  the  farther  side  of  the  court.  But  the  Count- 
ess had  vanished ;  she  had  not  lost  a  moment  in  hiding 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD.  119 

herself  in  the  recesses  of  her  room.  For  the  first  time 
in  their  intercourse  M.  de  Vlaye  approached  his  host 
without  ceremony  or  greeting. 

"The  Countess  must  come  with  me/'  he  said  roughly 
and  roundly.  "She  cannot  stay  here.  This  place," 
with  a  look  of  naked  scorn,  "is  no  place  for  her.  Give 
orders,  if  you  please,  that  she  prepare  to  accompany 
me." 

The  Vicomte,  shaken  by  the  events  of  the  morning, 
stood  thunderstruck.  His  hand  trembled  on  his  staff, 
and  for  a  moment  he  could  not  speak.     At  last — 

"The  Countess  is  in  my  care,  and  under  my  protec- 
tion," he  said,  in  a  voice  shrill  with  emotion. 

"Neither  of  which  would  avail  her  in  the  least,"  M.  de 
Vlaye  answered  brutally,  "in  the  event  of  danger!  But 
it  is  not  to  enter  into  an  argument  that  I  am  here.  I 
care  nothing  for  the  number  of  your  household,  or  the 
strength  of  your  house,  M.  le  Vicomte,  or,"  with  a 
sneer,  "what  was  the  condition  of  either — before  Cou- 
tras.  The  point  is,  this  is  no  place  for  one  in  the  Count- 
ess of  Rochechouart's  position.  It  is  my  duty  to  see 
her  placed  in  a  position  of  greater  safety,  and  I  intend 
to  perform  that  duty!" 

The  Vicomte,  powerless  as  he  was,  shook  with  pas- 
sion. "Since  when,"  he  exclaimed,  "has  that  duty 
been  laid  upon  you?" 

"It  is  laid  on  me,"  the  Captain  of  Vlaye  answered 
contemptuously,  "by  the  fact  that  there  is  no  one  else 
in  the  district  who  can  perform  it." 

"You  will  perform  it  at  your  peril,"  the  Vicomte  said. 

"I  shall  perform  it." 

"But  if  the  Countess  prefers  to  stay  here?"  Roger 
cried,  interfering  hotly. 


120  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"It  is  a  question  of  her  safety,  and  not  of  her  prefer- 
ence," Vlaye  retorted,  standing  grim  and  cold  before 
them.     "She  must  come." 

A  dozen  of  his  troopers  had  ridden  into  the  courtyard, 
and  from  their  saddles  were  watching  the  group  on  the 
drawbridge.  The  group  consisted,  besides  the  Vicomte, 
of  Roger  and  his  sister,  old  Solomon  the  porter,  and  the 
wild-looking  steward.  Roger,  his  heart  bursting  with 
indignation,  measured  with  his  eye  the  distance  across 
the  courtyard,  and  had  thoughts  of  flinging  himself  upon 
Vlaye,  bearing  him  to  the  ground,  and  making  his  life 
the  price  of  his  men's  withdrawal.  But  he  had  no 
weapon,  Solomon  and  Fulbert  were  in  the  like  case,  and 
the  Captain  of  Vlaye,  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  and 
armed,  was  likely  to  prove  a  match  for  all  three. 

If  the  Vicomte 's  ancestors  in  the  pride  of  their  day 
and  power  had  been  deaf  to  the  poor  man's  cry,  if  the 
justice-elm  without  the  castle  gates  had  received  in  the 
centuries  past  the  last  sighs  of  the  innocent,  if  the 
towers  of  the  old  house  had  been  built  in  groaning  and 
cemented  with  blood,  some  part  of  the  debt  was  paid 
this  day  on  the  drawbridge.  To  see  the  sacred  rights 
of  hospitality  deforced,  to  stand  by  while  the  guest 
whom  he  could  not  protect — and  that  guest  a  woman 
of  his  rank  and  kind — was  torn  from  his  hearth,  to  be 
set  for  a  laughing-stock  to  this  canaille  of  troopers — 
such  a  humiliation  should  have  slain  the  last  of  the 
Villeneuves  where  he  stood. 

Yet  the  Vicomte  lived — lived,  it  is  true,  with  twitch- 
ing lips  and  shaking  hands — but  lived,  and,  after  a  few 
seconds  of  moody  silence,  stooped  to  parry  the  blow 
which  he  could  not  return. 

"To-morrow — if  you  will  wait  until  to-morrow,"  he 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD  121 

muttered,  "she  may  be  better  prepared  to — take  the 
journey." 

"To-moiTow?" 

"Yes,  if  you  will  give  us  till  to-morrow" — reluctantly 
— "we  may  persuade  her." 

M.  de  Vlaye's  answer  was  as  unexpected  as  it  was 
decisive.  "Be  it  so!"  he  said.  "She  shall  have  till 
to-morrow."  He  spoke  more  graciously,  more  cour- 
teously, than  he  had  yet  spoken.  "I  have  been — it  is 
possible  that  in  my  anxiety  for  her  safety,  M.  le  Vi- 
comte,  I  have  been  hasty.  Once  a  soldier,  always  a 
soldier!  Forgive  me,  and  you,  mademoiselle,  the  same; 
and  I,  on  my  side,  will  say  to-morrow.  There,  I  am 
not  unreasonable,"  with  a  poor  attempt  at  joviality. 
"Only  I  must  leave  with  you  ten  or  a  dozen  troopers 
for  her  safe  keeping.  And  beyond  to-morrow,  in 
the  present  state  of  the  country,  I  cannot  spare 
them." 

At  the  mention  of  the  troopers  the  Vicomte's  jaw 
fell.     He  stared. 

"Will  not  that  suit  you?"  M.  de  Vlaye  said  gaily. 
He  had  recovered  his  usual  spirits.  He  spoke  in  his 
old  tone. 

"It  must,"  the  Vicomte  answered  sullenly,  "But 
I  could  answer  for  her  without  your  troopers." 

M.  de  Vlaye  shook  his  head.  "Ah,  no,"  he  said. 
"I  can  say  no  better  than  that.  With  the  Crocans 
so  near,  and  growing  in  boldness  every  day,  I  am 
bound  to  be  careful.  I  am  told,"  with  a  pecuhar 
smile,  "that  some  ne'er-do-wells  of  birth  have  joined 
them  in  these  parts.     The  worse  for  them!" 

"Well,  be  it  so,"  the  Vicomte  said  with  a  ghastly 
smile.     "Be  it  so!    Be  it  so!" 


122  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Good,"  Vlaye  answered  cheerfully — he  grew  more 
at  his  ease  with  every  word.  Some  might  have  thought 
that  he  had  gained  all  he  wanted  or  saw  a  new  and 
easy  way  to  it.  "Good,  and  as  I  must  be  returning, 
I  will  give  the  necessary  orders  at  once." 

He  turned  as  he  spoke,  and  crossing  the  courtyard, 
conferred  awhile  with  Ampoule,  his  second  in  com- 
mand. Hurriedly  men  were  told  off  to  this  hand  and 
that,  some  trotting  briskly  under  the  archway — where 
the  hay  of  more  peaceful  days  deadened  the  sound  of 
hoofs,  and  the  cobwebs  almost  swept  their  heads — 
and  others  entering  by  the  same  road.  Presently 
M.  de  Vlaye,  whose  horse  had  been  brought  to  him, 
got  to  his  saddle,  rode  a  few  paces  nearer  the  draw- 
bridge, and  raised  his  hat. 

"I  have  done  as  you  wish,"  he  said.  "Until  to- 
morrow, M.  le  Vicomte!  Mademoiselle,  I  kiss  your 
hands!''  And  wilfully  blind  to  the  coldness  of  the 
salutation  made  in  return,  he  wheeled  his  horse  grace- 
fully, called  a  man  to  his  side,  and  rode  out  of  the 
court. 

The  Vicomte  let  his  chin  fall  upon  his  breast,  and 
beyond  a  doubt  his  reflections  were  of  the  bitterest. 
But  soon  he  remembered  that  there  were  strange  eyes 
upon  him,  and  he  turned  and  went  heavily  into  his 
house,  the  house  that  others  now  had  in  keeping. 
Old  Solomon  followed  him  with  an  anxious  face,  and 
Fulbert,  ever  desirous  to  be  with  his  mistress,  van- 
ished in  their  train.  The  troopers,  after  one  or  two 
glances  at  the  two  who  remained  on  the  drawbridge, 
and  a  jest  at  which  some  laughed  outright  and  some 
made  covert  gestures  of  derision,  began  to  lead  their 
horses  into  the  long  stable. 


IN  THE  HAY-FIELD.  123 

Roger's  eye  met  Bonne's  in  a  glance  of  flame.  "Do 
you  see?"  he  said.  "He  was  to  leave  twelve — at  the 
most.     He  has  left  eighteen.     Do  you  understand?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  do!"  he  said.  "I  dol  We  may  go  to  our 
prayers!" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  soldiers'  frolic. 

A  FEW  hours  later  the  chateau  of  Villeneuve,  buried 
in  the  lonely  woods,  wore  a  strange  and  unusual  aspect. 
To  all  things  there  comes  an  end,  even  to  long  silences 
and  the  march  of  uneventful  years.  Summer  evening 
after  summer  evening  had  looked  its  last  through 
darkening  tree-tops  on  the  house  of  Villeneuve,  and 
marked  but  a  spare  taper  burning  here  and  there  in 
its  recesses.  Winter  evening  after  winter  evening  had 
fallen  on  the  dripping  woods  and  listened  in  vain  for 
the  sounds  of  revelry  that  had  once  beaconed  the  lost 
wayfarer,  and  held  wolves  doubting  on  the  extremest 
edge  of  pasture.  Night  after  night  for  well-nigh  a 
generation — with  the  one  exception  of  the  historic 
night  of  Coutras,  when  the  pursuers  feasted  in  its  hall — 
the  house  had  stood  shadowy  and  silent  in  the  dim 
spaces  of  its  clearing,  and  prowling  beasts  had  haunted 
without  fear  its  threshold.  A  rotten  branch,  falling 
in  the  depth  of  the  forest,  now  scared  more  than  its 
loudest  orgy;  nay,  the  dead  lords,  at  rest  in  the  decay- 
ing graveyard  where  the  Abbey  had  stood,  made  as 
much  impression  on  the  night — for  often  the  will  o'  the 
wisp  burned  there— as  their  fallen  descendants  in  his 

darkling  house. 

124 


A  SOLDIERS'  FROLIC.  125 

Until  this  night,  when  the  wild  things  of  the  wood 
saw  with  wonder  the  glow  in  the  tree-tops  and  cowered 
in  their  lairs,  and  the  owl  mousing  in  the  uplands  beyond 
the  river  shrank  from  the  light  in  the  meadows,  and 
flew  to  shelter.  Beside  the  weU  in  the  courtyard 
blazed  such  a  bonfire  as  frightened  the  sparrows  from 
the  ivy;  and  the  wolf  had  been  brave  indeed  that 
ventured  within  half  a  mile  of  the  singers,  whose  voices 
woke  the  echoes  of  the  ancient  towers. 

"  Les  femmes  ne  portent  pas  moustache, 
Mordieu,  Marion! 
Les  femmes  ne  portent  pas  moustache] 

C'^tait  des  mtires  qu'ell'  mangeait 

Mon  dieu,  mon  ami  I 
C'^tait  des  miires  qu'ell'  mangeait!" 

As  the  troopers,  seated,  some  on  the  well-curb,  and 
some  on  logs  and  buckets,  beat  out  the  chorus,  or 
broke  off  to  quarrel  across  the  flames,  a  chance  passer 
might  have  thought  the  night  of  the  great  battle  come 
again.  Old  Solomon,  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  wood, 
and  watching  the  train  of  sparks  fly  upwards,  trembled 
for  his  haystacks;  nor  would  the  man  of  peace  have 
been  a  coward  who,  looking  in  at  the  open  gate,  pre- 
ferred a  bed  in  the  greenwood  to  the  peril  of  entrance. 
The  more  timid  of  the  serving-men  had  hidden  them- 
selves with  sunset;  the  dogs  had  fled  to  kennel  with 
drooping  tails.  The  noise  was  such  that  but  for  one 
thing  a  stranger  must  have  supposed  that  a  mutiny 
was  on  the  point  of  breaking  out.  This  was  the  cool 
demeanour  of  Ampoule,  M.  de  Vlaye's  lieutenant; 
who  with  a  couple  of  confidants  sat  drinking  in  the 
outer  hall,  where  the  flames  of  an  unwonted  fire  shone 
on  torn  pennons  and  dusty  head-pieces.    When  asked 


126  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

by  Roger  to  reduce  the  men  to  order,  as  the  women 
could  not  sleep,  he  had  shown  himself  offhand  to  the 
point  of  insolence,  curt  to  the  point  of  brutality.  "  Have 
a  care  of  yourselves,  and  I'll  have  a  care  of  my  men!" 
he  said.  "You  go  to  your  own!"  And  he  would 
hear  no  more. 

The  Vicomte  for  a  while  noticed  none  of  these  things. 
The  events  of  the  morning  had  aged  and  shaken  him, 
and  for  hours  he  sat  speechless,  with  dull  eyes,  thinking 
of  God  knows  what — perhaps  of  the  son  he  had  cast  off, 
or  of  his  own  fallen  estate,  or  of  the  peril  of  his  guest. 
In  vain  did  Roger  and  his  younger  daughter  try  to  rouse 
him  from  his  reverie — try  to  gain  some  counsel,  some 
comfort  from  him.  They  could  not.  But  that  which 
their  timid  efforts  failed  to  effect,  the  rising  tempest  of 
joviality  at  last  and  suddenly  wrought. 

"Where  is  Solomon?"  he  cried,  lifting  his  head  as 
one  awakened  from  sleep.  And  he  looked  about  him 
in  great  wrath.  "Where  is  Solomon?  Why  does  he 
not  put  a  stop  to  this  babel?  'Sdeath,  man,  am  I  to 
put  up  with  this?  Do  you  hear  me?"  looking  round. 
"Do  you  want  them  to  bring  the  Abbess  downstairs?" 

Bonne  and  Roger,  who  were  crouching  with  the  little 
Countess  in  one  of  the  two  window-recesses  that  over- 
looked the  courtyard,  rose  to  go  to  him.  But  Solomon, 
who  had  been  hiding  in  the  shadows  about  the  door,  was 
before  them.  "To  be  sure,  my  lord,  to  be  sure!"  the 
old  servant  said  gallantly,  though  his  troubled  face  and 
twitching  beard  bespoke  his  knowledge  of  the  real  posi- 
tion. "To  be  sure,  my  lord,  it  is  not  the  first  time  by 
a  many  hundred  the  knaves  have  forgot  themselves, 
and  I've  had  to  go  with  a  stirrup-leather  and  bring 
them  to  their  senses!    The  liquor  that  has  run  in  this 


A  SOLDIERS'  FROLIC.  127 

house" — he  lifted  his  hands  in  admiration — "'tis  no 
wonder,  my  lord,  it  goes  sometimes  to  the  head!" 

"Go  out,  man!  Go  out  and  put  a  stop  to  it!"  the 
Vicomte  retorted  passionately.  "Your  chattering  does 
but  add  to  it!" 

"To  be  sure,  my  lord,  I  am  going,"  Solomon  an- 
swered bravely.  But  his  eyes  asked  Roger  a  question. 
"To  be  sure  it  is  like  old  days,  my  lord,  and  I  thought 
that  may-be  you  would  like  them  to  have  their  way 
a  while." 

"I  should  like  it,  fool?" 

"You  might  think  it  better " 

"Begone!" 

"  Nay, "  Roger  said,  approaching  the  Vicomte.  "  Nay, 
if  any  one  goes,  sir,  I  must.  Solomon  is  old,  and  they 
may  mishandle  him. ' ' 

"Mishandle  him?"  the  Vicomte  said,  opening  his  eyes 

in  astonishment.     "Mishandle  my  steward?    My " 

He  broke  off,  his  hands  feeling  tremulously  for  the 
arms  of  his  chair;  he  found  them  and  sank  back  in  it. 
''I — I  had  forgotten!"  he  muttered,  his  head  sinking  on 
his  breast.  "I  had  forgotten.  I  dreamt,  and  now  I 
am  awake.  I  dreamt,"  he  continued,  speaking  with 
increasing  bitterness,  "that  I  was  Seigneur  and  Vicomte 
of  Villeneuve,  and  Baron  of  Vlaye!  With  swords  at 
my  will,  and  steeds  in  stall,  and  a  lusty  son  to  take 
him  by  the  beard  who  crossed  me!  And  I  am  a  beggar! 
A  beggar,  with  no  son  to  call  a  son,  with  no  sword  but 
that  old  fool's  blade!  Mishandle  him?"  gloomily.  "Ay, 
they  may  mishandle  him!"  he  contijiued  feebly,  his 
head  sinking  yet  lower  on  his  breast.  "But  there. 
It  is  over.     Let  them  do  what  they  will!" 

He    continued    to    mutter,    but    incoherently,    and 


128  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

Roger,  signing  to  Solomon  to  go  to  his  place  again, 
slunk  back  to  the  window  recess.  The  lad  had  no 
hope  of  effecting  more  with  Ampoule,  a  brutal  man 
where  rein  was  given  him;  and  he  crouched  once  more 
where  he  could  see  the  dark  figures  carousing  in  the 
glare  that  reached  to  the  range  of  stables.  In  order 
that  those  in  the  room  might  see  without  being  seen, 
Solomon  had  lighted  no  more  than  two  candles,  and 
these  were  not  behind  the  window,  where  Roger  and 
the  two  girls  sat  in  the  shadow.  They  could  therefore 
look  out  unchecked. 

The  day  had  been — and  not  many  hours  past — ^when 
the  lad's  cheek  would  have  burned  under  the  sneer 
just  flung  at  him.  Now,  though  a  stranger  and  a  girl 
had  heard  it,  he  was  unmoved-  For  petty  feelings  of 
that  kind  his  mind  had  no  longer  space.  The  conduct 
of  the  man  whom  Vlaye  had  left  on  guard,  the  increas- 
ing disorder  and  babel  of  the  half-drunken  troopers, 
awoke  in  him  neither  indignation  nor  anger,  nor  as- 
tonishment, but  only  fear.  Not  a  fear  that  unmanned 
him,  though  he  faced  his  first  real  peril,  nor  a  fear  that 
disarmed  him,  but  one  that  braced  him  to  do  his  best, 
that  enabled  him  to  think,  and  plan,  and  determine — 
crook-shouldered  as  he  was — with  a  coolness  which  some 
day,  as  des  Ageaux  had  said,  might  make  of  him  a  com- 
mander of  men. 

He  was  convinced  that  the  men's  unruliness  was  a 
thing  planned  and  arranged.  The  Captain  of  Vlaye  had 
conceived  the  wickedness  of  doing  by  others  what  he 
dared  not  do  himseK.  The  men,  unless  Roger  was  mis- 
taken, would  pass  still  more  out  of  hand;  the  officer 
would  profess  himself  impotent.  Then,  it  might  not 
be  this  evening,  but  to-morrow,  or  to-morrow  evening 


A  SOLDIERS'  FROLIC.  129 

at  latest,  the  men  would  burst  all  bounds,  cast  aside 
respect,  seize  the  young  Countess,  and  bear  her  off.  At 
the  ford,  or  where  you  will,  Vlaye  would  encounter 
them,  rescue  her,  and  while  he  gained  a  hold  on  her 
gratitude,  would  effect  that  which  he  had  shrunk  from 
doing  openly. 

It  was  a  wicked,  nay,  a  devilish  plan,  because  in  the 
course  of  its  execution  there  must  come  a  moment 
when  all  in  the  house — and  not  the  young  girl  only  at 
whom  the  plan  was  aimed — would  lie  at  the  men's 
mercy.  For  a  time  the  men,  half-drunk,  must  be 
masters.  A  moment  there  must  be  of  extreme  danger, 
threatening  all,  embracing  all;  and  he,  a  lad,  stood  alone 
to  meet  it.  Alone,  save  for  one  old  man;  for  the 
Vicomte  was  past  such  work,  and  the  servants  had 
fled.  And  though  Bonne,  to  whom  as  well  as  to  the 
young  Countess  he  had  disclosed  his  fears,  persisted 
in  the  hope  of  rescue,  and  based  that  hope  on 
their  strange  guest's  promise,  he  had  little  or  no 
hope. 

As  he  crouched  with  the  two  girls  in  the  dark  window 
recess,  he  faced  the  danger  coolly,  though  the  scene  was 
one  to  depress  an  older  heart.  The  scanty  rays  of  the 
two  candles  which  lighted  a  small  part  of  the  chamber 
fell  full  on  the  Vicomte,  where  he  sat  sunk  low  in  his 
chair,  a  shiver  passing  now  and  again  over  his  inert  and 
feeble  limbs.  The  only  figure  visible  against  the  gloomy, 
dust-coloured  hangings,  he  seemed  the  type  of  a  race 
fallen  hopelessly;  his  features,  once  imperious,  hung 
flaccid,  his  hands  clung  weakly  to  the  arms  of  his  chair. 
He  was  capable  still  of  one  brief,  foolish  outburst,  one 
passionate  stroke;  but  no  help  or  wise  counsel  could  be 
expected  from  him.     He  was  astonishingly  aged  in  one 


130  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

day;  even  his  power  to  wound  the  mind  seemed  near 
its  end. 

In  contrast  with  that  drooping  figure,  seated  amid 
the  shadows  of  the  room  in  which  generations  of  Ville- 
neuves  had  lorded  it  ro3^ally,  the  scene  without  struck 
with  an  appalUng  sense  of  virility.  The  lusty  troopers 
lolling  in  the  hot  blaze  of  the  bonfire,  on  which  one  or 
another  constantly  flung  fresh  wood,  and  now  roaring 
out  some  gutter-stave,  now  flinging  coarse  badinage 
hither  and  thither,  were  sucn  as  years  of  license  and 
cruel  campaigning  had  made  them;  men  such  as  it  took 
a  Vlaye  or  a  Montluc  to  curb.  And  had  the  lad  who 
watched  them  with  burning  eyes  and  a  beating  heart 
lacked  one  jot  of  the  perfect  courage,  he  had  as  soon 
thought  of  pitting  himself  against  them  as  of  raising 
dead  bones  to  life. 

But  he  had  that  thought,  and  even  planned  and  plotted 
as  he  watched  them.  "Where  is  Odette?"  he  asked 
in  a  whisper.  He  had  Bonne's  hand  in  his,  her  other 
arm  held  the  Countess  to  her.  "They  may  be  afraid 
of  her.  If  she  spoke  to  the  officer,  he  might  listen  to 
her." 

"She  will  not  beHeve  there  is  danger,"  Bonne  an- 
swered with  something  like  a  sob.  "She  will  not  hear 
a  word.  I  began  to  explain  about  the  Countess  and 
she  flew  into  a  passion.  She  has  shut  herself  up  and 
says  that  we  are  all  mad,  stark  mad  from  living  alone, 
and  afraid  of  our  shadows.  And  she  and  her  women 
have  shut  themselves  up  in  her  chamber.  I  have  been 
to  the  door  twice,  but  she  mil  hear  nothing." 

''She  will  hear  too  much  by  and  byl"  Roger  muttered. 

Then  a  thing  happened.  The  light  cast  by  the  bon- 
fire embraced,  it  has  been  said,  the  whole  of  the  court- 


A  SOLDIERS'  FROLIC.  131 

yard.  The  men,  confident  in  their  strength,  had  left 
the  gate  open.  As  Roger  ceased  to  speak,  a  single 
horseman  emerged,  silent  as  a  spectre,  from  the  low 
gateway,  and  advancing  at  a  foot-pace  three  or  four 
steps,  drew  rein,  and  gazed  in  astonishment  at  the 
scene  of  hilarity  presented  to  him. 

The  three  at  the  window  were  the  first  to  see  him. 
Roger's  hand  closed  on  his  sister's;  hers,  so  cold  a 
moment  before,  grew  on  a  sudden  hot.  "Who  is  it?'' 
Roger  muttered.  "Who  is  it?"  The  court,  which 
sloped  a  Httle  from  the  house,  was  wide,  but  it  might 
have  been  narrow  and  still  he  had  asked,  for  the  stranger 
wore — it  was  no  uncommon  fashion  in  those  days — a 
mask.  It  was  a  slender  thing,  hiding  only  the  upper 
part  of  the  face,  but  it  sufficed.  "Who  is  it?"  Roger 
repeated. 

"M.  des  Voeuxl"  Boime  answered  involuntarily.  In 
their  excitement  the  three  rose  to  their  feet. 

Whether  it  were  M.  des  Voeux  or  not,  the  masked 
man  seemed  in  two  minds  about  advancing.  He  had 
even  turned  his  horse  as  if  he  would  go  out  again,  when 
some  of  the  revellers  espied  him,  and  on  the  instant  a 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  crackling  of  the  logs,  and  as 
striking  as  the  previous  din,  proclaimed  the  fact. 

The  change  seemed  to  encourage  the  stranger  to 
advance.  As  he  wheeled  again  and  paced  nearer,  the 
men  who  sat  on  the  farther  side  of  the  fire  from  him, 
and  for  that  reason  could  not  see  him,  rose  and  stood 
gaping  at  him  through  the  smoke.  He  moved  nearer 
to  the  outer  ring. 

"Who  lives  here,  my  good  people?"  he  asked  in  a 
voice  peculiarly  sweet  and  clear;  his  tone  smacked  even 
a  little  womanish. 


132  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAl^. 

One  of  the  men  stifled  a  drunken  laugh.  Another 
turned,  and  after  winking  at  his  neighbours — who 
passed  the  joke  round — advanced  a  pace  or  two,  un- 
covered elaborately  and  bowed  with  ceremony  to 
match.  "M.  le  Vicomte  de  Villeneuve,  if  it  please 
you,  my  lord — I  should  say  your  excellency!"  with 
another  low  bow. 

"Curse  on  it!"  the  stranger  exclaimed. 

The  men's  spokesman  stared  an  instant,  taken  aback 
by  the  unexpected  rejoinder.  Then,  aware  that  his 
reputation  among  his  fellows  was  at  stake,  he  recovered 
himself.  "Did  your  excellency,  my  lord  duke" — 
another  delighted  chuckle  among  the  men— "please 
to  speak?" 

"Go  and  tell  him  I  am  here,"  the  masked  man  an- 
swered, disregarding  their  horse-play;  and  he  released 
his  feet  from  the  stirrups.  The  window  of  the  dining- 
hall  was  open,  and  the  three  at  it  could  mark  him  well, 
and  hear  every  word  of  the  dialogue. 

"If  your  excellency — would  enter?"  the  man  rejoined 
with  the  same  travesty  of  politeness.  "The  Vicomte 
would  not  wish  you,  I  am  sure,  to  await  his  coming." 

"Very  good.  And  do  you,  fellow,  tell  him  that  I 
crave  the  favour  of  a  night's  lodging.  That  I  am  alone, 
and  my — but  the  rest  I  will  tell  him  myself!" 

The  troopers  nudged  one  another.  "Go,  Jasper," 
said  the  spokesman  aloud,  "and  carry  his  excellency's 
commands  to  M.  le  Vicomte.  Your  horse,  my  lord 
duke,  shall  be  taken  care  of!  This  way,  if  it  please  you 
my  lord  duke!  And  do  some  of  you,"  turning,  and 
making,  unseen  by  the  stranger,  the  motion  of  turning 
a  key — "bring  lights!  Lights  to  the  west  tower,  do 
you  hear?  " 


A  SOLDIERS'  FROLIC.  138 

The  faces  of  the  three  within  the  window  were  pressed 
against  the  panes.  "Who  can  he  be?"  Bonne  mut- 
tered.    "They  call  him " 

"They  are  fooling  him!"  Roger  replied  in  wrath. 
"They  know  no  more  who  he  is  than  we  do!  He  is  not 
des  Voeux.  He  has  not  his  height,  and  not  haK  his 
width.  But  what,"  angrily,  "are  they  doing  now? 
Where  are  they  taking  the  man?  Why  are  they  taking 
him  to  the  old  tower?" 

Why  indeed? 

Instead  of  conducting  the  guest  over  the  bridge 
which  led  to  the  inhabited  part  of  the  house,  the  trooper, 
attended  by  four  or  five  of  his  half -drunken  comrades, 
was  ushering  him  with  ceremony  to  the  lesser  bridge 
which  led  to  the  western  tower;  the  ground  floor  of 
which,  a  cold  damp  dungeon-like  place,  was  used  as  a 
wood  store.  It  had  been  opened  a  few  hours  before, 
that  fagots  might  be  taken  from  it,  and  this  circum- 
stance had  perhaps  suggested  the  joke  to  the  prime 
conspirator. 

"Lights  are  coming,  my  lord  duke!"  he  said,  taking 
a  flaring  brand  from  one  of  his  comrades  and  holding 
it  aloft.  He  was  chuckling  inwardly  at  the  folly  of  the 
stranger  in  swallowing  his  egregious  titles  without 
demur.  "Tlie  Vicomte  shall  be  told.  Beware  of  the 
step,  my  lord!"  lowering  his  light  that  the  other  might 
see  it.  They  were  on  the  threshold  now,  and  he  pushed 
open  the  door  that  already  stood  ajar.  "The  step  is 
somewhat  awkward,  your  excellency!  We  have  to  go 
through  the — it  is  somewhat  old-fashioned,  but  crav- 
ing your  excellency's  pardon  for  bringing  you  this  way 
—Yah!" 

With  the  word  a  sudden  push  thrust  the  unsuspecting 


134  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

stranger  forward.  Involuntarily  he  stumbled,  tripped 
and  with  a  cry  of  rage  found  himself  on  his  hands  and 
knees  among  the  fagots.  Before  he  could  rise  the  door 
clanged  horridly  on  him,  the  key  grated  in  the  lock,  he 
was  in  darkness,  a  prisoner! 

The  men,  reckless  and  half-drunk,  roared  with  de- 
light at  the  jest.  "Welcome,  my  lord  duke!"  the  ring- 
leader cried,  holding  aloft  his  light,  and  bowing  to  the 
ground  before  the  thick  oaken  door.  "Welcome  to 
Villeneuve!" 

"Welcome!"  cried  the  others,  waving  their  lights, 
and  clutching  one  another  in  fits  of  laughter.  "Wel- 
come to  Villeneuve!  A  good  night  to  you!  An  appe- 
tite to  your  supper,  my  lord  duke!" 

So  they  gibed  awhile.  Then,  beginning  to  weary  of 
it,  they  turned  and,  still  shaking  with  laughter,  discov- 
ered an  addition  to  their  party:  Roger  stood  before 
them,  his  e3"es  glittering  with  excitement.  The  lad 
had  not  been  able  to  look  on  and  see  the  trick  played  on 
a  guest;  the  more  as  that  guest  represented  his  one 
solitary,  feeble  hope  of  help.  Tlie  men  might  still  be 
sober  enough  to  listen;  at  any  rate  he  would  try. 
Much  against  their  wills  he  had  broken  away  from  the 
girls.     He  was  here. 

"Open  that  door!"  he  said. 

The  man  to  whom  he  spoke,  the  ringleader,  looked 
almost  as  much  astonished  as  he  was.  The  others 
ceased  to  laugh,  and  waited  to  see  what  would 
happen. 

"That  door?"  the  man  concerned  answered  slowly 
as  soon  as  he  could  bring  his  thoughts  to  bear  on  the 
emergency. 

"Yes,  that  door!"  Roger  cried  imperiously,  all  the 


A  SOLDIERS'  FROLIC.  135 

Villeneuve  in  him  rising  to  the  surface.  "And  in- 
stantly, fellow!" 

"So  be  it,  if  you  will  have  it  so,"  the  man  replied, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "But  it  was  only  a  jest, 
and " 

"There  is  enough  of  the  jest,  and  too  much!"  Roger 
retorted.  He  spoke  so  bravely  that  not  a  man  re- 
membered his  crooked  shoulders.     "Open,  I  say!" 

The  man  shook  his  head.     "Best  not,"  he  said. 

"It  shall  be  done!" 

"Well,  you  can  open,  if  you  please,"  the  man  replied. 
"But  I  am  M.  de  Vlaye's  man  and  take  orders  nowhere 
else!"  And  wuth  an  insolent  gesture  he  flung  the  key 
on  the  ground. 

To  punish  him  for  his  insolence,  when  they  were  a 
score  to  one,  was  impossible.  Roger  took  up  the  key, 
set  it  in  the  lock,  turned,  opened,  and,  tricked  in  his 
turn,  plunged  head  first  into  the  darkness,  impelled  by 
a  treacherous  thrust  from  behind.  Crash!  The  door 
was  shut  on  him. 

But  he  knew  naught  of  that.  As  he  fell  forward  a 
savage  blow  from  the  front,  from  the  darkness,  hurled 
him  breathless  against  a  pile  of  fagots.  At  the  same 
moment  a  voice  cried  in  his  ear,  "There  is  one  is  spent, 
Deo  Laus!"  A  hand  groped  for  him,  a  foot  was  set 
hard  against  him,  and  something  wrenched  at  his 
clothes. 

"Why,"  quoth  the  same  voice  a  second  later — the 
darkness  was  almost  perfect — "did  I  not  run  the  rascal 
through?" 

"No!"  Roger  said,  and  as  the  stranger's  sword,  which 
had  only  passed  through  his  clothes,  was  dragged  clear, 
he  nimbly  shifted  his  place.     "And  I  beg  you  will  not," 


136  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

he  continued  hurriedly.  "  I  was  coming  to  your  aid ,  and 
those  treacherous  dogs  played  the  same  trick  on  me!" 

"Then  who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Roger  de  Villeneuve,  my  father's  son." 

"Then  it  is  Villeneuve,  this  place?  They  did  not  lie 
in  that?" 

"No,  it  is  Villeneuve,  but  these  scoundrels  are  Vlaye's 
people,"  Roger  answered.  He  was  in  the  depths  of 
despair,  for  the  girls  were  alone  now  and  unprotected. 
"They  are  in  possession  here,"  he  continued,  almost 
weeping.     "M.  de  Vlaye " 

"The  Captain  of  Vlaye,  do  you  mean?" 

"  Yes.  He  tried  to  seize  the  Countess  of  Rochechouart 
as  she  passed  this  way  yesterday.  She  took  refuge  here 
and  he  did  not  dare  to  drag  her  away.  So  he  left  these 
men  to  guard  her,  as  he  said ;  but  really  to  carry  her  off 
as  soon  as  they  should  be  drunk  enough  to  venture  on 
it."  Poor  Roger's  voice  shook.  He  was  lamenting 
his  folly,  his  dreadful  folly,  in  leaving  the  women. 

The  stranger  took  the  news,  as  was  natural,  after  a 
different  fashion,  and  one  strange  enough.  First  he 
swore  with  a  deliberate  fluency  that  shocked  the  country 
lad;  and  then  he  laughed  with  a  light-hearted  joyous- 
ness  that  was  still  more  alien  from  the  circumstances. 
"Well,  it  is  an  adventure!"  he  cried.  "It  is  an  adven- 
ture! And  for  what  did  I  come?  To  the  fool  his  folly! 
And  one  fool  makes  many!  But  do  you  think,  my 
friend,"  he  continued,  speaking  in  a  different  strain, 
"that  they  will  carry  off  the  Countess  while  we  lie 
here?" 

Roger,  raging  in  the  dark,  had  no  other  thought. 
"Why  not?"  he  cried.  "Why  not?  And  there  are 
other  women  in  the  house."     He  groaned. 


A  SOLDIERS'  FROLIC.  137 

"Young?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"And  one  of  them — lovely?"  There  was  amusement 
in  the  stranger's  tone. 

"One  of  them  is  my  sister,"  Roger  retorted  fiercely. 
And  for  an  instant  the  other  was  silent. 

Then,  "With  what  attendance?"  he  asked.  "Whom 
have  they  with  them  that  you  can  trust?" 

"The  Countess's  steward  and  one  old  man.  And 
my  father,  but  he  is  old  also." 

"Pheugh!"  the  stranger  whistled.  "An  adventure 
indeed!"  From  the  sound  of  the  fagots  it  seemed 
that  he  was  moving.  "We  must  out  of  this,"  he  said, 
"and  to  the  rescue!  But  how?  There  is  no  other  door 
than  the  one  by  which  we  entered?" 

"  There  is  one,  but  the  key  is  lost,  and  it  has  not  been 
opened  for  years." 

"Then  we  must  go  out  as  we  came  in,"  the  stranger 
answered  gaily.  "But  how?  But  how?  Let  me  think! 
Let  me  think,  lad!" 

The  smell  of  damp  earth  mingled  with  rotting  wood 
pervaded  the  darkness  in  which  they  stood.  They 
could  not  see  one  another,  but  at  a  certain  height 
from  the  ground  a  shaft  of  reddish  Hght  pierced  the 
gloom  and  disclosed  about  a  foot  of  the  cobweb  vault 
above  them.  This  light  entered  through  an  arrow-slit 
which  looked  toward  the  bonfire,  and  apparently  it 
suggested  a  plan,  for  presently  the  stranger  could  be 
heard  stumbHng  and  groping  towards  it. 

"You  cannot  go  out  that  way!"  Roger  said. 

"No,  but  I  can  get  them  in!"  the  other  answered 
drily,  and  from  certain  noises  which  came  to  his  ear 
Roger  judged  that  the  man  was  piling  wood  under  the 


138  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

opening  that  he  might  climb  to  it.  He  succeeded  by- 
and-by;  his  head  and  shoulders  became  darkly  visible 
at  the  udndow — if  window  that  could  be  called  which 
was  but  a  span  wide. 

"There  is  some  one  in  command?"  he  asked.  "Who 
is  it?  His  name,  my  friend?"  And  when  Roger,  who 
fortunately  remembered  Ampoule's  name,  had  told  him : 
"Do  you  pile,"  he  said,  "some  wood  behind  the  door, 
so  that  it  cannot  be  opened  to  the  full  or  too  quickly. 
It  is  only  to  give  us  time  to  transact  the  punctilios." 

Roger  complied.  He  hoped — ^but  with  doubt — that 
the  man  was  not  mad.  He  supposed  that  out  in  the 
world  men  were  of  these  odd  and  surj^rising  kinds. 
The  Lieutenant  had  impressed  him.  This  strange  man, 
who  after  coining  within  an  ace  of  killing  him  jested, 
who  laughed  and  blasphemed  in  a  breath,  and  who 
was  no  sooner  down  than  he  was  up,  impressed  him 
more  vividly,  though  differently.  And  was  to  impress 
him  still  more.  For  when  he  had  set  the  wood  behind 
the  door,  the  unknown,  raised  on  his  pile  of  fagots,  thrust 
his  face  into  the  opening  of  the  arrow-slit,  and  in  a  shrill 
voice  of  surprising  timbre  began  to  pour  on  the  ill- 
starred  Ampoule  a  stream  of  the  grossest  and  most 
inj\irious  abuse.  Amid  stinging  gibes  and  scalding  epi- 
thets, and  words  that  blistered,  the  name  rang  out  at 
intervals  only  to  sink  agam  under  the  torrent  of  vile 
charges  and  outrageous  insinuations.  The  lad's  ears 
burned  as  he  listened;  burned  still  more  hotly  as  he 
reflected  that  the  girls  might  be  within  hearing.  As 
for  the  men  at  the  fire,  twenty  seconds  saw  them  silent 
with  amazement.  Their  very  laughter  died  out  under 
that  steady  stream  of  epithets,  for  any  one  of  which 
a  man  of  honour  must  have  cut  his  fellow's   throat. 


A  SOLDIERS'  FROLIC.  139 

A  moment  or  two  passed  in  this  stark  surprise;  still 
the  voice,  ever  attaining  lower  depths  of  abuse,  went 
on. 

At  length,  whether  some  one  told  him  or  he  heard  it 
himself,  the  Heutenant  came  out,  and,  flushed  with 
drink,  listened  for  a  while  incredulous.  But  when  he 
caught  his  name,  undoubtedly  liis  name,  "Ampoule! 
Ampoule  1"  again  and  again,  and  the  tale  was  told  him, 
and  he  began  to  comprehend  that  in  the  tower  was  a  man 
who  dared  to  say  of  him,  Vlaye's  right  hand  in  many  a 
dark  adventure,  of  him  who  had  cut  many  a  young 
cock's  comb — to  say  of  him  the  things  he  heard — he 
stood  an  instant  in  the  blaze  of  the  fire  and  bellowed 
like  a  bull. 

"His  own  sister,  fifteen  years  old,"  the  pitiless  voice 
repeated.  "Sold  her  to  a  Spanish  Jew  and  divided  the 
money  with  his  mother!" 

Ampoule's  mouth  opened  wide,  but  this  time  breath 
failed  him.     He  gasped. 

"And  being  charged  with  it  at  Fontarabie,"  con- 
tinued the  voice,  "as  he  returned,  showed  the  white 
feather  before  four  men  at  the  inn,  who  took  him  and 
dipped  him  in  a  dye  vat." 

"Son  of  a  dog!"  Ampoule  shrieked,  getting  his  voice 
at  last.     "This  is  too  much!     This  is '.' 

"Why,  he  never  bullies  when  he  is  unsupported!" 
his  tormentor  went  on.  "But  a  craven  he  has  always 
been  when  put  to  it!  If  he  be  not,  let  him  say  it  now, 
and  face  me  in  a  ring!" 

The  exasperated  man  ground  his  teeth  and  flung 
out  his  arms.  "Face  you!"  he  roared.  "You!  You! 
Face  me,  and  I  will  cut  out  your  heart!'.' 

"Fine   talk!    Fine   talk!"    came   the   answer.    "So 


140  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

you  have  said  many  a  time  and  run !  Meet  me  in  a  ring, 
foot  to  foot  and  fairly,  in  your  shirt!" 

"I'll  meet  you!"  the  lieutenant  answered  passion- 
ately. "I'll  meet  you,  fool  of  the  world.  Little  you 
know  whom  you  have  bearded.  You  must  be  mad; 
but  mad  or  not,  say  your  prayer,  for  'twill  be  the  last 
time!" 

There  was  a  momentary  pause.  Then  "Promise  me 
a  ring  and  fair-play!"  cried  the  high,  delicate  voice, 
"and  a  clear  way  of  escape  if  I  kill  you!" 

"Ay,  ay!  That  will  I!  All  that!  And  much  good 
may  it  do  you!" 

"Nay,  but  swear  it,"  the  stranger  persisted,  "by — by 
our  Lady  of  Rocamadour!'/ 

"I  swear  it!    I  swear  it!'/ 

"Then,"  the  stranger  replied  with  a  sneer,  "it  is  for 
you  to  open.  I've  no  key!"  And  he  leapt  lightly 
from  his  pile  of  fagots  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


FATHER    ANGEL. 


As  he  groped  his  way  towards  the  door,  he  came 
into  contact  with  Roger,  who  was  also  making  for  it. 
Roger  gripped  him  and  tried  to  hold  him.  "Is  there 
no  other  way?"  the  lad  muttered.  The  situation 
appalled  him.  "No  other  way?  You  are  no  match 
for  him!" 

"That  we  shall  see!"  the  stranger  retorted  curtly. 

"Then  I  shall  help  you!"  the  lad  declared. 

"Would  you  take  on  another  of  them?"  the  stranger 
answered  eagerly.  "But  no,  you  are  over  young  for 
it!  You  are  over  young  by  your  voice."  Then,  as 
the  key  grated  in  the  lock,  "Stand  at  my  back  if  you 
will,"  he  continued,  "and  if  they — would  play  me 
foul,  it  may  serve.  But  I  shall  give  him  brief  occasion! 
You  will  see  a  pretty  thing,  my  lad." 

Crash!  The  door  was  forced  open,  letting  a  flood  of 
smoky  light  into  the  dark  place.  He  who  had  opened 
the  door.  Ampoule  himself,  strode  back,  when  he  had 
done  it,  across  the  wooden  bridge,  and  flinging  a  hoarse 
taunt,  a  "Come  if  you  dare!"  over  his  shoulder,  swag- 
gered to  the  farther  end  of  the  hollow  space  which 
the  men  had  formed  by  ranging  themselves  in  three 
lines;    the  bridge  and  moat  forming  the  fourth.     One 

141 


142  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

in  every  three  or  four  held  up  a  blazing  firebrand,  plucked 
from  the  flames;  the  light  of  which,  falling  on  the  inter- 
vening space,  rendered  it  as  clear  as  in  the  day. 

The  stranger,  a  little  to  Roger's  surprise,  but  less  to 
the  surprise  of  Ampoule's  comrades,  did  not  obey  the 
summons  with  much  alacrity.  He  waited  in  the  door- 
way, accustoming  his  eyes  to  the  hght,  and  the  lad, 
whose  heart  overflowed  with  pity  and  apprehension — 
for  he  could  not  think  his  ally  a  match  for  Ampoule's 
skill  and  strength — had  time  to  mark  the  weird  mingling 
of  glare  and  shadow,  and  to  wonder  if  this  lurid  space 
encircled  by  unreal  buildings  were  indeed  the  peaceful 
courtyard  which  he  had  known  from  childhood.  Mean- 
while Ampoule  waited  disdainfully  at  the  other  end  of 
the  lists,  and  as  one  who  scarcely  expected  his  adver- 
sary to  appear  made  his  blade  whistle  in  the  air.  Or, 
in  turn,  to  show  how  lightly  he  held  the  situation,  he 
aimed  playful  thrusts  at  the  legs  of  the  man  who  stood 
nearest,  and  who  skipped  to  escape  them. 

"Must  we  fetch  you  out,  dirty  rogue?"  he  cried,  af- 
ter a  minute  of  this.     "Or " 

"Oh,  tace!  tace!"  the  stranger  answered  in  a  peevish 
tone.  He  showed  himself  on  the  drawbridge,  and  with 
an  air  of  great  caution  began  to  cross  it.  He  still  wore 
his  mask.  "You  are  more  anxious  than  most  to  reach 
the  end  of  your  life,"  he  continued  in  the  same  querulous 
tone.     "You  are  ready?" 

"Ready,  when  you  please!"  Ampoule  retorted  fum- 
ing.    "It  is  not  I " 

"Who  hang  back?"  the  stranger  answered.  As  he 
spoke  he  stepped  from  the  end  of  the  bridge  like  a  man 
stepping  into  cold  water.  He  even  seemed  to  hold 
himself  ready  to  flee  if  attacked  too  suddenly.     "But 


FATHER  ANGEL.  143 

5'-ou  are  sure  you  are  ready  now?"  he  queried,  "Quite 
ready?  Do  not  let  me" — with  a  backward  glance — 
"take  you  by  surprise!" 

Ampoule  began  to  think  that  it  would  not  be  -^athout 
trouble  he  would  draw  his  adversary  within  reach. 
The  duels  of  those  days,  be  it  remembered,  were  not 
formal.  Often  men  fought  without  seconds;  sometimes 
in  full  armour,  sometimes  in  their  shirts.  Advantages 
that  would  now  be  deemed  dishonourable  were  taken 
by  the  most  punctilious.  So,  to  lure  on  his  man  and 
show  his  own  contempt  for  the  affair.  Ampoule  tossed 
up  his  sword,  and  caught  it  again  by  the  hilt,  "I'm 
ready!"  he  said.  He  came  forward  three  paces,  and 
again  tossing  up  his  sword,  recovered  it. 

But  the  masked  man  seemed  to  be  unwilling  to  quit 
the  shelter  of  the  drawbridge;  so  unwilling  that  Roger, 
who  had  taken  up  his  position  on  the  bridge  behind 
him,  felt  his  cheek  grow  hot.  His  ally  had  proved 
himself  such  a  master  of  tongue  fence  as  he  had  never 
imagined.  Was  he,  ready  as  he  had  been  to  provoke 
the  quarrel,  of  those  who  blench  when  the  time  comes 
to  make  good  the  taunt? 

It  seemed  so.  For  the  stranger  still  hung  undecided, 
a  foot  as  it  were  either  way.  "You  are  sure  that  I 
should  not  now  take  you  by  surprise?"  he  babbled, 
venturing  at  length  a  couple  of  paces  in  the  direction 
of  the  foe — ^but  glancing  behind  between  his  steps. 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  Ampoule  answered  scornfully, 
"that  I  see  before  me  a  poltroon  and  a  coward!" 

The  word  was  still  on  his  lips,  when  like  a  tiger-cat, 
like  that  which  in  all  the  world  is  most  swift  to  move, 
hke,  if  you  will,  the  wild  boar  that  will  charge  an  army, 
the  mask  darted  rather  than  ran  upon  his  opponent. 


144  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

But  at  the  same  time  with  an  incredible  lightness. 
Before  Ampoule  could  place  himself  in  the  best  pos- 
ture, before  he  could  bring  his  sword-point  to  the  level, 
or  deal  one  of  those  famous  "  estramagons"  which  he 
had  been  wasting  on  the  empty  air,  the  other  was 
within  his  guard,  they  were  at  close  quarters,  the 
advantage  of  the  bigger  man's  length  of  arm  was 
gone.  How  it  went  after  that,  who  struck,  who  par- 
ried, not  the  most  experienced  eye  could  see.  So 
quick  on  one  another,  so  furious,  so  passionate  were 
the  half-dozen  blows  the  masked  man  dealt,  that  the 
clearest  vision  failed  to  follow  them.  It  was  as  if  a 
wild  cat,  having  itself  nine  lives,  had  launched  itseK 
at  Ampoule's  throat,  and  gripped,  and  stabbed,  and 
struck,  and  in  ten  seconds  borne  him  to  the  ground, 
falling  itself  with  him.  But  whereas  in  one  second  the 
masked  man  was  up  again  and  on  his  guard,  Ampoule 
rose  not.  A  few  twitches  of  the  limbs,  a  stifled  groan, 
an  arm  flung  wide,  a  gasp,  and  as  he  had  seen  many 
another  pass,  through  the  gate  by  which  he  had  sent 
not  a  few,  Ampoule  passed  himself.  Of  so  thin  a 
texture  is  the  web  of  life,  and  so  slight  the  thing  that 
suffices  to  tear  it.  Had  the  masked  stranger  ridden 
another  road  that  night,  had  he  been  a  little  later, 
had  he  been  a  little  sooner;  had  the  trooper  refrained 
from  his  jest  or  the  men  from  the  wine-pot,  had 
Roger  kept  his  distance,  or  the  arrow-slit  looked 
another  way — had  any  one  of  these  chance  occasions 
fallen  other  than  it  fell.  Ampoule  had  lived,  and 
others  perchance  had  died  by  his  hand! 

All  passed,  it  has  been  said,  with  incredible  swiftness; 
the  attack  so  furious,  the  end  a  lightning-stroke.  Roger 
on  the  bridge  awoke  from  a  doubt  of  his  ally's  courage 


FATHER  ANGEL.  145 

to  see  a  whirl,  a  blow,  a  fall;  and  then  on  the  ground 
ill-lighted  and  indistinct — for  half  the  men  had  dropped 
their  lights  in  their  excitement — he  saw  a  grim  picture, 
a  man  dying,  and  another  crouching  a  pace  from  him, 
watching  with  shortened  point  and  bent  knees  for  a 
possible  uprising. 

But  none  came;  Ampoule  had  lived.  And  presently, 
still  watching  cautiously,  the  mask  raised  himself  and 
dropped  his  point.  A  shiver,  a  groan  passed  round  the 
square.  A  single  man  swore  aloud.  Finally  three  or 
four,  shaking  off  the  stupor  of  amazement,  moved  for- 
wards, and  v/ith  their  eyes  assured  themselves  that 
their  officer  was  dead. 

At  that  Roger,  still  looking  on  as  one  fascinated, 
shook  himself  awake,  in  fear  for  his  principal.  He 
expected  that  an  attack  would  be  made  on  the  masked 
man.  None  was  made,  however,  no  one  raised  hand 
or  voice.  But  as  he  moved  towards  him,  to  support 
him  were  it  needful,  the  unexpected  happened.  The 
unknown  tottered  a  pace  or  two,  leant  a  moment  on 
his  sword-point,  swayed,  and  slowly  sank  down  on  the 
ground. 

With  a  cry  of  despair  Roger  sprang  to  him,  and  by  the 
gloomy  light  of  the  three  brands  which  still  remained 
ablaze,  he  saw  that  blood  was  welling  fast  from  a 
wound  in  the  masked  man's  shoulder.  Ampoule  had 
passed,  but  not  without  his  toll. 

Roger  forgot  the  danger.  Kneeling,  following  his 
instinct,  he  took  the  fainting  man's  head  on  his  shoulder. 
But  he  was  helpless  in  his  ignorance;  he  knew  not  how 
to  aid  him.  And  it  was  one  of  the  troopers,  late  his 
enemies,  who,  kneeling  beside  him,  quickly  and  deftly 
cut  away  the  breast  of  the  injured  man's  shirt,  and 


146  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

with  a  piece  of  linen,  doubled  and  redoubled,  staunched 
the  flow  of  blood.  The  others  stood  round  the  while, 
one  or  two  lending  a  light,  their  fellows  looking  on  in 
silence.  Roger,  even  in  his  distress,  wondered  at  their 
attitude.  It  would  not  have  surprised  him  if  the  men 
had  fallen  on  the  stranger  and  killed  him  out  of  hand. 
Instead  they  bent  over  the  wounded  man  with  looks 
of  curiosity;  with  looks  gloomy  indeed,  but  in  which 
awe  and  admiration  had  their  part.  Presently  at  his 
back  a  man  muttered. 

"The  devil,  or  a  Joyeuse!"  he  said.  ''No  other,  111 
be  sworn!" 

No  one  answered,  but  the  man  who  was  dressing  the 
wound  lifted  the  unknown's  hand  and  silently  showed 
a  ring  set  with  stones  that  even  by  that  flickering  and 
doubtful  light  dazzled  the  eye.  They  were  stones  such 
as  Roger  had  never  seen,  and  he  fancied  that  they 
must  be  of  inestimable  value. 

"Ay,  ay!"  the  man  who  had  spoken  muttered.  "I 
thought  it  was  so  when  I  saw  him  join!  I  mind  his 
brother,  the  day  he  died,  taking  two  of  his  o^vn  men  so, 
and — pouf!  I  saw  him  drown  an  hour  after,  and  he 
took  the  water  just  so,  cursing  and  swearing;  but  the 
Tarn  was  too  strong  for  him." 

"Tliat  was  Duke  Antony?"  a  second  whispered. 

"Antony  Scipio." 

"I  never  saw  him,"  the  second  speaker  answered 
softly.  "Duke  Anne  at  Coutras — I  saw  him  die;  and 
des  Ageaux,  that  is  now  Governor  of  P6rigord,  got  just 
such  a  wound  as  that  in  trying  to  save  him." 

"Pouf!  All  the  world  knew  him!"  he  who  had  first 
spoken  rejoined  with  the  scorn  of  superior  knowledge. 
"But" — to  the  man  who  was  binding  up  the  hurt,  and 


FATHER  ANGEL.  147 

who  had  all  but  finished  his  task — "you  had  better  look 
and  make  sure  that  we  shall  not  have  our  trouble  for 
nothing." 

The  trooper  nodded  and  began  to  feel  for  the  fastening 
of  the  mask,  which  was  of  strong  silk  on  a  stiff  frame. 
Roger  raised  his  hand  to  prevent  him,  but  as  quickly- 
repressed  the  impulse.  The  men  were  saving  the  man's 
life,  and  had  a  right  to  learn  who  he  was.  Besides, 
sooner  or  later,  the  thing  must  come  off. 

Its  removal  was  not  easy.  But  at  length  the  man 
found  the  catch,  it  gave  way,  and  the  morsel  of  black 
fell  and  disclosed  the  pale,  handsome  face  of  an  effemi- 
nate, fair-haired  man  of  about  thirty.  "Ay,  it  is  he! 
It  is  he,  sure  enough!"  went  around  the  circle,  with  here 
and  there  an  oath  of  astonishment. 

"Has  any  one  a  mouthful  of  Armagnac?"  the  im- 
promptu surgeon  asked.  "No,  not  wine.  There  now, 
gently  between  his  lips.  When  he  has  swallowed  a  little 
we  must  lift  him  into  the  house.  He  will  do  well,  I 
think." 

"But,"  Roger  asked,  after  in  vain  interrogating  their 
faces  with  his  eyes,  "who  is  it?  Who  it  is,  if  you  please? 
You  know  him?" 

"Ay,  we  know  him,"  the  trooper  answered  senten- 
tiously.  And,  rising  to  his  feet,  he  looked  about  him, 
"Best  close  that  gate,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice.  "If 
his  people  be  on  his  track,  as  is  likely,  and  come  on  us 
before  we  can  make  it  clear,  it  may  be  awkward!  See 
to  it,  some  of  you.  And  do  you,  Jasper,  take  horse  and 
tell  the  Captain,  and  get  his  orders." 

Two  or  three  of  the  men,  whom  the  event  had  most 
sobered,  strode  across  the  court  to  do  his  bidding. 
Roger  looked  from  one  to  another  of  those  who  re- 


148  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

mained.  "But  who  is  he?"  he  asked.  His  curiosity- 
was  piqued,  the  more  sharply  as  it  was  evident  that  the 
presence  of  this  man  who  lay  before  him,  wounded  and 
unconscious,  altered,  in  some  fashion,  the  whole  position. 

"Who  is  he?"  the  former  spokesman  answered 
roughly.  "Father  Angel,  to  be  sure!  You  have 
heard  of  him,  I  suppose,  j^oung  sir?" 

"Father  Angel?"  Roger  repeated  incredulously.  "A 
priest?    Impossible!" 

"WeU,  a  monk." 

"A  monk?" 

"Ay,  and  a  marshal  for  the  matter  of  that!"  the 
trooper  rejoined  impatiently.  "Here,  lift  him,  you! 
Gently,  gently!  Man,  it  is  the  Duke  of  Joyeuse,"  he 
continued,  addressing  Roger.  "You  have  heard  of 
him,  I  take  it?  Now,  step  together,  men,  and  you  won't 
shake  him!  We  must  lay  him  in  the  dining-hall.  He 
will  do  well  there."  And  again  to  Roger,  who  walked 
with  him  behind  the  bearers,  "If  you  don't  believe  me, 
see  here,"  he  said.  "'Tis  plain  enough  still!"  And 
taking  a  burning  splinter  of  wood  from  one  of  the  others 
he  held  it  so  that  the  light  fell  on  the  crown  of  the 
wounded  man's  head.  There  discernible  amid  the  long 
fair  hair  was  the  pale  shadow  of  a  tonsure. 

"Father  Angel?"  Roger  repeated  in  wonder,  as  the 
men  bearing  their  burden  stepped  slowly  and  warily  on 
to  the  bridge. 

"Ay,  no  other!  And  riding  on  what  mad  errand  God 
knows !  It  was  an  unlucky  one  for  Ampoule.  But  they 
are  all  mad  in  that  house !  Coutras  saw  the  end  of  one 
brother,  Yillemar  of  another ;  there  are  but  this  one  and 
the  Cardinal  left!  Look  your  fill,"  he  continued,  as  the 
men  under  his  direction  carried  their  burden  up  the 


FATHER  ANGEL.  149 

three  or  four  steps  that  led  from  the  outer  hall — where 
the  fire  Ampoule  had  knocked  together  still  burned  on 
the  dogs — to  the  dining-hall.  "Monk  and  Marshal, 
Duke  and  Capuchin,  angel  and  devil,  you'll  never  see 
the  like  again!" 

Probably  his  words  were  not  far  from  the  mark. 
Anne,  the  eldest  of  the  four  brothers,  by  whom  and  by 
whose  interest  with  King  Henry  the  Third  the  house 
had  risen  from  mediocrity  to  greatness,  from  respect- 
ability to  fame,  had  fallen  at  Coutras  encircled  by  the 
old  nobility  whom  he  had  led  to  defeat.  His  brother, 
Antony  Scipio,  young  as  he  was,  had  taken  charge  for 
the  League  in  Languedoc,  had  pitted  himself  against  the 
experience  of  Montmorency,  and  for  a  time  had  carried 
it.  But  his  minor  successes  had  ended  in  a  crushing 
defeat  at  Villemar  on  the  Tarn,  and  he  had  drowned  his 
chagrin  in  its  icy  waters,  cursing  and  swearing,  says  the 
old  chronicler,  to  the  last.  The  event  had  drawn  from 
his  monastery  the  singular  man  on  whom  Roger  now 
looked,  Henrj^  third  of  the  brothers,  third  Duke  of  the 
name,  the  fame  of  whose  piety  within  the  cloister  was 
only  surpassed  by  that  of  his  excesses  in  the  world ;  who 
added  to  an  emotional  temperament  and  its  sister  gift  of 
eloquence  the  feverish  energy  and  headlong  courage  of 
his  race.  Snatching  the  sword  fallen  from  his  brother's 
hands,  in  five  and  twenty  months  he  had  used  it  with 
such  effect  as  to  win  from  the  King  the  baton  of  a  mar- 
shal as  the  price  of  his  obedience. 

"M.  de  Joyeuse!"  Roger  muttered,  as  he  watched 
them  lay  the  unconscious  man  on  an  improvised  couch 
in  the  corner.     "M.  de  Joyeuse?    It  seems  incredible!" 

"There  is  nothing  credible  about  them,"  the  man 
answered  darkly.     "The  old  fool  who  keeps  the  gate 


150  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

here  would  try  the  belief  of  most  with  his  fables.  But 
he'll  never  put  the  handle  to  their  hatchet,"  with  a  nod 
of  meaning.  "Yet  to  listen  to  him,  Charlemagne  and 
the  twelve  were  not  on  a  level  with  his  master — once! 
But  where  are  you  going,  young  sir?"  in  an  altered  tone. 

"To  tell  the  Vicomte  what  has  occurred,"  Roger 
answered,  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  inner  door — the 
door  that  led  to  the  stairs  and  the  upper  rooms. 

"By  your  leave!" 

"I  don't  understand." 

"By  your  leave,  I  say!"  the  trooper  answered  more 
sharply,  and  in  a  twinkling  he  had  intervened,  turned 
the  key  in  the  lock  and  withdrawn  it.  "I  am  sorry, 
young  sir,"  he  continued,  coolly  facing  about  again, 
"but  until  we  know  what  is  to  do,  and  what  the  Cap- 
tain's orders  are — he  has  a  trump  card  in  his  hand  now, 
or  I  am  mistaken — I  must  keep  you  here,  by  your 
leave." 

"Against  my  leave!" 

"As  you  please  for  that." 

"I  should  have  though  that  you  had  had  enough  of 
keeping  people!"  Roger  retorted  angrily. 

"May-be  Ampoule  has,"  the  man  answered  with  a 
faint  sneer.  "I'll  see  if  I  have  not  better  luck.  Come, 
young  sir,"  he  continued  with  good-humour,  "you  can- 
not say  that  I  have  been  aught  but  gentle  so  far.  You've 
fared  better  with  me,  ay,  a  rnort  better,  than  you'd  have 
fared  if  the  Captain  had  been  here.  But  I  don't  want 
to  have  to  hurt  you  if  it  comes  to  blows  upstairs.  You 
are  safer  here  looking  after  the  Duke.  And  trust  me, 
you'll  thank  me,  some  day." 

Roger  glared  at  him  in  resentment.  He  felt  that 
he  who  lay  helpless  in  the  corner  would  have  known 


FATHER  ANGEL.  151 

how  to  deal  with  the  man  and  the  situation;  but,  for 
himself,  he  did  not.  To  attempt  force  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  the  trooper  had  withdrawn  and  closed 
the  door,  leaving  Roger  alone  with  the  patient,  before 
the  idea  of  bribery  occurred  to  the  lad.  It  was  as  well 
perhaps;  for  what  was  there  at  Villeneuve,  what  had 
they  in  that  poverty-stricken  home  of  such  a  value  as 
to  outweigh  the  wrath  of  Vlaye?  Or  to  corrupt  men 
who  had  seen,  without  daring  to  touch,  a  ring  worth  a 
King's  ransom? 

Nothing,  for  certain,  which  it  was  in  Roger's  power 
to  give.  Moreover,  the  situation,  though  full  of  peril, 
seemed  less  desperate.  The  Duke's  act,  if  it  had 
wrought  no  more,  had  sobered  the  men,  and  his  pres- 
ence, wounded  as  he  was,  was  a  factor  Roger  could  not 
estimate.  The  respect  with  which  the  men  treated 
him  when  he  lay  at  their  mercy,  and  their  care  to  do 
the  best  for  him,  to  say  nothing  of  the  feelings  of  awe 
and  admiration  in  which  they  held  him — these  things 
promised  well.  The  question  was,  how  would  his 
presence  affect  M.  de  Vlaye?  And  his  pursuit  of  the 
Countess? 

Roger  had  no  notion.  The  possession  of  the  person 
of  a  prince  who  ruled  a  great  part  of  Languedoc  might 
touch  the  Captain  of  Vlaye — a  minnow  by  comparison, 
but  in  his  own  water — in  a  number  of  ways.  It  might 
strengthen  him  in  his  present  design,  or  it  might  turn 
him  fiom  it  by  opening  some  new  prospect  to  his  am- 
bition. Again,  M.  de  Vlaye  might  treat  the  Duke  in 
one  of  several  modes;  as  an  enemy,  as  a  friend,  as  a 
hostage.  He  might  use  the  occasion  well  or  ill.  He 
might  work  on  fears  or  gratitude.  All  to  Roger  was 
dark  and  uncertain ;  as  dark  as  the  courtyard,  where  the 


152  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

flames  of  the  huge  fire  had  sunk  low,  and  men  by  the 
dull  glow  of  the  red  embers  were  removing  in  a  cloak 
the  body  of  the  unfortunate  Ampoule.  Ay,  and  as 
uncertain  as  the  breathing  of  the  wounded  man  in  the 
corner,  which  now  seemed  to  stop,  and  now  hurried 
weakly  on. 

Roger  paced  the  room.  He  did  not  know  for  certain 
what  had  become  of  the  Countess,  or  of  his  sister,  or  of 
his  father.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  they  had 
sought  the  greater  safety  of  the  upper  rooms.  He  had 
himself,  earlier  in  the  evening,  suggested  that  if  the 
worst  threatened  they  might  retreat  to  the  tower  cham- 
ber, and  there  defend  themselves ;  but  the  Vicomte  had 
pooh-poohed  the  suggestion,  and  though  Bonne,  who 
persisted  in  expecting  help  from  outside,  had  supported 
it,  the  plan  had  been  given  up.  Still  they  were  gone, 
and  they  could  have  retired  no  other  way.  He  listened 
at  the  locked  door,  hoping  to  hear  feet  on  the  stairs; 
for  they  must  be  anxious  about  him.  But  all  was 
still.  His  sister,  the  Countess,  the  Vicomte,  might  have 
melted  into  the  air — as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

And  this,  anxious  as  he  was  for  them,  vexed  him. 
He  had  failed!  The  long  silence  that  had  brooded  over 
the  decaying  house,  the  dull  life  against  which  he  and 
his  brother  had  fretted,  were  come  to  an  end  with  a 
vengeance.  But  what  use  had  he  made  of  the  oppor- 
tunity? When  he  should  have  been  playing  the  hero 
upstairs,  when  he  should  have  been  the  head  and  front 
of  the  defence,  directing  all,  inspiring  all,  he  lay  here 
in  a  locked  room  like  a  naughty  child  who  must  be 
shielded  from  harm. 

A  movement  on  the  part  of  the  sick  man  cut  short 
his  thoughts.     The  Duke  was  making  futile  attempts 


FATHER  ANGEL.  153 

to  raise  himself  on  his  elbow.  ' '  Ageaux !  Des  Ageaux ! " 
he  muttered.  "You  are  satisfied  now!  I  struck  him 
fairly." 

Roger  hurried  to  him  and  leant  over  him.  "Lie  still 
and  do  not  speak/'  he  said,  hoping  to  soothe  him. 

"We  are  quits  now,"  the  Duke  whispered.  "We 
are  quits  now.  Say  so,  man!"  he  continued  queru- 
lously. "I  tell  you  Vlaye  will  trouble  you  no  more.  I 
struck  him  fairly  in  the  thi'oat." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Roger  replied.  It  was  evident  that  the 
Duke  was  rambling  in  his  mind,  and  took  him  for  some 
one  else.     "We  are  quits  now." 

"Quits,"  the  wounded  man  muttered,  as  if  he  found 
some  magic  in  the  words.  And  he  drowsed  off  again 
into  the  half-sleep,  half-swoon  of  exhaustion. 

Roger  could  make  nothing  of  it,  except  that  the  Duke 
had  Vlaye  in  his  mind,  and  fancied  that  it  was  he 
whom  he  had  killed.  But  des  Ageaux,  whom  he  fan- 
cied he  was  addressing?  Roger  knew  him  by  name 
and  that  he  was  Governor  of  P^rigord,  a  man  of  name 
and  position  beyond  his  rank.  But  how  came  he  in 
this  galley?  Oh,  yes.  He  remembered  now.  His  name 
had  been  mentioned  in  connection  with  the  death  of  the 
eldest  Joyeuse  at  Coutras. 

Roger  snuffed  the  candles,  and  mixing  a  little  wine 
with  water,  put  it  by  the  Duke's  side.  Then  he  wan- 
dered to  the  locked  door,  and  again  listened  fruitlessly. 
Thence,  for  he  could  not  rest,  he  went  to  the  window, 
where  he  pressed  his  forehead  against  the  cool  glass. 
The  fire  had  sunk  lower;  it  was  now  no  more  than  an 
angry  eye  glowing  in  the  darkness.  He  could  discern 
little  by  its  light.  No  one  moved,  the  courtyard  seemed 
as  vacant  and  deserted  as  the  house.     Or  no.     In  the 


154  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

direction  of  the  gate  he  caught  the  ghnt  of  a  lanthorn 
and  the  movement  of  several  figures,  revealed  for  an 
instant  and  as  suddenly  obscured.  He  continued  to 
watch  the  place  where  the  light  had  vanished,  and  pres- 
ently out  of  the  obscurity  grew  a  black  mass  that  slowly 
took  the  form  of  a  number  of  men  crossing  the  court  in 
a  silent  body,  five  or  six  abreast.  The  tramp  of  their 
feet,  inaudible  on  the  soil,  rumbled  hollowly  as  they 
mounted  the  bridge,  which  creaked  beneath  them.  He 
caught  the  gleam  of  weapons,  heard  a  low  order  given, 
fell  back  from  the  window.  He  had  little  doubt  what 
they  were  about  to  do. 

He  was  right.  The  heavy,  noisy  entry  into  the  outer 
hall  had  scarcely  prepared  him  before  the  door  was 
thrown  open  and  they  filed  into  the  room  in  which  he 
stood. 

What  could  he  do?  Resistance  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. "What  is  it?"  he  asked,  making  a  show  of 
confronting  them. 

"No  matter,  young  sir,"  the  man  who  had  before 
taken  charge  answered  gruffly.  "Stand  you  on  one 
side  and  no  harm  will  happen  to  you," 

"But " 

"Stand  back!  Stand  back!"  the  man  answered 
sternly.  "We  are  on  no  boy's  errand!"  Then  to  his 
party,  "Bring  the  Hghts,"  he  continued,  and  advancing 
to  the  inner  door  he  unlocked  it.  "Who  has  the 
hammer?  Good,  do  you  come  first  with  me.  And 
let  the  last  two  stand  here  and  keep  the  door." 

He  went  through  without  more  words,  and  disap- 
peared up  the  staircase,  followed  by  his  men  in  single 
file.  The  two  last  remained  on  guard  at  the  door,  and 
they  and  Roger  waited  in  the  semi-darkness  listening 


FATHER  ANGEL.  155 

to  the  lumbering  tread  of  the  troopers  as  they  stum- 
bled on  the  wooden  stairs,  or  their  weapons  clanged 
against  the  wall.  Roger  clenched  his  hands  hard, 
vowing  vengeance;  but  what  couJd  he  do?  And  he 
had  one  consolation.  Ampoule's  death  bad  sobered 
the  men.  They  would  execute  their  orders,  but  the 
fear  of  outrage  and  excess  which  had  dwelt  on  his 
mind  earlier  in  the  evening  no  longer  seemed  serious. 

The  sound  of  the  men's  feet  on  the  stairs  had  ceased; 
he  guessed  that  they  were  searching  the  rooms  over- 
head. A  moment  later  their  movements  made  this 
clear.  He  heard  their  returning  footsteps  and  their 
raised  voices  in  the  upper  passage.  They  seemed  to 
confer,  and  to  halt  for  a  minute  undecided.  Then  a 
door,  doubtless  the  one  which  led  to  the  roof,  was  tried, 
and  tried  again.  But  in  vain,  for  the  next  moment  a 
voice  cried  harshly,  "Open!  Open!"  and  after  an 
interval  a  crash,  twice  repeated,  proclaimed  that  the 
hammer  was  being  brought  into  use.  A  scrambling  of 
hasty  feet  followed,  and  then  silence — doubtless  they 
were  crossing  the  roof — and  then  a  pistol  shot!  One 
pistol  shot! 

Roger  glared  at  the  men  who  had  been  left  with  him. 
They  opened  the  door  more  widely,  and  stepping 
through  seemed  to  listen.  For  a  moment  the  wild 
notion  of  locking  the  door  on  them,  of  locking  the 
door  on  all,  occurred  to  Roger.     But  he  discarded  it. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


SPEEDY     JUSTICE 


The  elder  of  the  Villeneuve  brothers  was  less  happy 
than  Roger,  in  that  the  Vicomte  had  passed  to  him  a 
portion  of  his  crabbed  nature.  Something  of  the  bit- 
terness, something  of  the  hardness  of  the  father  lurked 
in  the  son;  who  in  the  like  unfortunate  circumstances 
might  have  grown  to  be  such  another  as  his  sire,  but 
with  more  happy  surroundings  and  a  better  fate  still 
had  it  in  him  to  become  a  generous  and  kindly  gentle- 
man. 

It  was  this  latent  crabbedness  that  had  kept  the  in- 
justice of  his  lot  ever  before  his  gaze.  Roger  bore 
lightly  with  his  heavier  burden,  and  only  the  patient 
sweetness  of  his  eyes  told  tales.  Bonne  was  almost 
content;  if  she  fretted  it  was  for  others,  and  if  she 
dreamed  of  the  ancient  glories  of  the  house,  it  was  not 
for  the  stiff  brocades  and  jewelled  stomacher  of  her 
grandame  that  she  pined. 

But  with  Charles  it  was  otherwise.  The  honour  of 
the  family  was  more  to  him,  for  he  was  the  heir.  Its 
dignity  and  welfare  were  his  in  a  particular  sense;  and 
had  he  been  of  the  most  easy  disposition,  he  must  still 
have  found  it  hard  to  see  all  passing;  to  see  the  end, 
and  to  stand  by  with  folded  arms.     But  when  to  the 

156 


SPEEDY  JUSTICE.  157 

misery  of  inaction  and  the  hopelessness  of  the  oiillook 
were  added  the  Vicomte's  daily  and  hourly  taunts,  and 
all  fell  on  a  nature  that  had  in  it  the  seeds  of  unhappi- 
ness,  what  wonder  if  the  young  man  broke  away  and 
sought  in  action,  however  desperate,  a  remedy  for  his 
pains? 

A  step  which  he  would  now  have  given  the  world  to 
undo.  As  he  rode  a  prisoner  along  the  familiar  track, 
which  he  had  trodden  a  thousand  times  in  freedom  and 
safety,  the  iron  entered  into  his  soul.  The  sun  shone, 
the  glades  were  green,  in  a  hundred  brakes  the  birds 
sang,  in  shady  dells  and  under  oaks  the  dew  sparkled; 
but  he  rode,  his  feet  fastened  under  his  horse's  belly, 
his  face  set  towards  Vlaye.  In  an  hour  the  dungeon 
door  would  close  on  him.  He  would  have  given  the 
world,  had  it  been  his,  to  undo  the  step. 

Not  that  he  feared  the  dungeon  so  much,  or  even 
death;  though  the  thought  of  death,  amid  the  wood- 
land beauty  of  this  June  day,  carried  a  chill  all  its  own, 
and  death  comes  cold  to  him  who  awaits  it  with  tied 
hands.  But  he  could  have  faced  death  cheerfully — or 
he  thought  so — had  he  fallen  into  a  stranger's  power; 
had  the  victory  not  been  so  immediately,  so  easily, 
so  completely  with  Vlaye — whom  he  hated.  To  be 
dragged  thus  before  his  foe,  to  read  in  that  sneering  face 
the  contempt  which  events  had  justified,  to  lie  at  his 
mercy  who  had  treated  him  as  a  silly  clownish  lad,  to 
be  subjected,  may-be,  to  some  contemptuous  degrading 
punishment — ^this  was  a  prospect  worse  than  death, 
a  prospect  maddening,  insupportable!  Therefore  he 
looked  on  the  woodland  with  eyes  of  despair,  and  now 
and  again,  in  fits  of  revolt,  had  much  ado  not  to  fight 
with  his  bonds,  or  hurl  unmanly  insults  at  his  captors, 


158         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

They,  for  their  part,  took  Httle  heed  of  him.  They 
had  not  bound  his  hands,  but  had  tied  the  reins  of  his 
horse  to  one  of  their  saddles,  and,  satisfied  with  this 
precaution,  they  left  him  to  his  reflections.  By-and- 
by  those  reflections  turned,  as  the  thoughts  of  all  cap- 
tives turn,  to  the  chance  of  escape ;  and  he  marked  that 
the  men — they  numbered  five — seemed  to  be  occupied 
with  something  which  interested  them  more  than  their 
prisoner.  What  it  was,  of  what  nature  or  kind,  he  had 
no  notion;  but  he  observed  that  as  surely  as  they  re- 
called their  duty  and  drew  round  him,  so  surely  did 
the  lapse  of  two  or  three  minutes  find  them  dispersed 
again  in  pairs — it  might  be  behind,  it  might  be  before 
him. 

When  this  happened  they  talked  low,  but  with  an 
absorption  so  entire  that  once  he  saw  a  man  jam  his 
knee  against  a  sapling  which  he  failed  to  see,  though  it 
stood  in  his  path;  and  once  a  man's  hat  was  struck 
from  his  head  by  a  bough  which  he  might  have  avoided 
by  stooping. 

Naturally  the  trooper  to  whose  saddle  he  was  attached 
had  no  part  in  th^se  conferences.  And  by-and-by  this 
man,  a  grizzled,  thick-set  fellow  with  small  eyes,  grew 
impatient,  and  even,  it  seemed,  suspicious.  For  a  time 
he  vented  his  dissatisfaction  in  gnmts  and  looks,  but  at 
last,  when  the  four  others  had  got  together  and  were 
colloguing  with  heads  so  close  that  a  saddle-cloth  would 
have  covered  them,  he  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"Come,  enough  of  that!"  he  cried  surlily.  "One  of 
you  take  him,  and  let  me  hear  what  you  have  settled. 
I'd  like  my  say  as  well  as  another." 

"Ay,  ay.  Baptist,"  one  of  the  four  answered.  "In  a 
minute,  my  lad." 


SPEEDY  JUSTICE.  159 

Baptist  swore  under  his  breath.  Still  he  waited,  and 
by-and-by  one  of  the  men  came  grudgingly  back,  took 
over  the  prisoner,  and  suffered  Baptist  to  join  the  coun- 
cil. But  Villeneuve,  whose  attention  was  now  roused, 
noted  that  this  man  also,  after  an  interval,  became 
restless.  He  watched  his  comrades  with  jealous  eyes, 
and  from  time  to  time  he  pressed  nearer,  as  if  he  would 
fain  surprise  their  talk.  Things  were  in  this  position 
when  the  party  arrived  at  a  brook,  bordered  on  either 
side  by  willow  beds  and  rushes,  and  passable  at  a  tiny 
ford.  Beyond  the  brook  the  hill  rose  suddenly  and 
steeply.  Charles  knew  the  place  as  he  knew  his  hand, 
and  that  from  the  brook  the  track  wound  up  through 
the  brushwood  to  a  nick  in  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
whence  Vlaye  could  be  seen  a  league  below. 

The  four  troopers  paused  at  the  ford,  and  letting  their 
horses  drink,  permitted  the  prisoner  and  his  guard  to 
come  up.  The  man  they  called  Baptist  approached  the 
latter.  "If  you  will  wait  here,"  he  said,  with  a  look  of 
meaning,  "we'll  look  to  the — you  know  what." 

"I?  No,  cursed  if  I  do !"  the  man  answered  plumply, 
his  swarthy  face  growing  dark.     "I'm  not  a  fool!" 

"Then  how  in  the  devil's  name  are  we  to  do  it?" 
Baptist  retorted  with  irritation. 

"Stay  yourself  and  take  care  of  him!" 
"And  let  you  find  the  stuff!"  with  an  ugly  look.     "A 
nice  reckoning  I  should  get  afterwards." 
"Well,  I  won't  stay,  that's  flat!" 
The  men  looked  at  one  another,  and  their  lowering 
glances  disclosed  their  embarrassment.     The  prisoner 
could  make  no  guess  at  the  subject  of  discussion,  but  he 
saw  that  they  were  verging  on  a  quarrel,  and  his  heart 
beat  fast.     Given  the  slightest  chance  he  was  resolved 


160         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

to  take  it.  But,  that  his  thoughts  might  not  be  read,  he 
kept  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  feigned  a  sullenness 
which  he  no  longer  felt. 

Suddenly,  "Tie  him  to  a  tree!"  muttered  one  of  the 
men  with  a  sidelong  look  at  him. 

"And  leave  him?" 

"Ay,  why  not?" 

"Why  not?"  Baptist,  the  eldest  of  the  men,  rejoined 
with  an  oath.  "Because  if  harm  happen  to  him,  it 
will  be  I  will  pay  for  it,  and  not  you!  That  is  why 
not!" 

"Tie  him  well  and  what  can  happen?"  the  other  re- 
torted. And  then,  "Must  risk  something.  Baptist,"  he 
added  with  a  grin,  which  showed  that  he  saw  his  advan- 
tage, "smce  you  are  in  charge." 

The  secret  was  simple.  The  men  had  got  wind  that 
morning  of  a  saddle  and  saddle-bags — and  a  dead  horse, 
but  that  counted  for  nothing — that  in  the  search  after 
the  attack  on  the  Countess's  party  had  been  overlooked 
in  the  scrub.  Detached  to  guard  the  prisoner  to  Vlaye 
they  had  grinned  at  the  chance  of  forestalling  their  com- 
rades and  gaining  what  there  was  to  gain;  which  fancy, 
ever  sanguine,  painted  in  the  richest  colours.  But  the 
five  could  neither  trust  one  another  nor  their  prisoner; 
for  Charles  might  inform  Vlaye,  and  in  that  case  they 
would  not  only  lose  the  spoil  but  taste  the  strapado — 
the  Captain  of  Vlaye  permitting  but  one  robber  in  his 
band.  Hence  they  stood  m  the  position  of  the  ass  be- 
tween two  bundles  of  hay,  and  dared  not  leave  their 
prisoner,  nor  would  leave  the  spoil. 

At  length,  after  some  debate,  made  up  in  the  main  of 
oaths,  "Draw  lots  who  stays!"  one  suggested, 

"We  have  no  cards." 


SPEEDY  JUSTICE.  161 

"There  are  other  v;ays." 

"Well,"  said  he  who  had  charge  of  the  prisoner, 
"whose  horse  stops  drmking  first — let  him  stay!" 

"Oh,  yes!"  retorted  Baptist.  "And  we  have  watered 
our  horses  and  you  have  not!" 

The  man  grinned  feebly ;  the  others  laughed.  "  Well," 
he  said,  "do  you  hit  on  something  then!  You  think 
yourself  clever." 

Villeneuve  bethought  him  of  the  prince  who  set  his 
guards  to  race,  and,  when  their  horses  were  spent, 
galloped  away  laughing.  But  he  dared  not  suggest 
that,  though  he  tingled  with  anxiety.  "Who  sees  a 
heron  first,"  said  one. 

But  "Pooh!"  with  a  grin,  "we  are  all  liars!"  put  an 
end  to  that. 

"Well,"  said  Baptist  sulkily,  ''if  we  stay  here  a  while 
longer  we  shall  all  lie  for  nothing,  for  we  shall  have 
the  Captain  upon  us." 

Thus  spurred  a  man  had  an  idea  that  seemed  fair. 
"We've  no  two  horses  alike,"  he  said.  "Let  us  pluck  a 
hair  from  the  tail  of  each.  He" — pointing  to  Charles — 
"shall  draw  one  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  whoever  is 
drawn  shall  stay  on  guard." 

They  agreed  to  this,  and  Charles,  being  applied  to, 
consented  with  a  sulky  air  to  play  his  part.  The  hairs 
were  plucked,  a  grey,  a  chestnut,  a  bay,  a  black,  and  a 
sorrel ;  and  the  prisoner,  foreseeing  that  he  would  be  left 
with  a  single  trooper,  and  determined  in  that  case  to 
essay  escape,  shut  his  eyes  and  felt  for  the  five  hairs,  and 
selected  one.  The  man  drawn  was  the  man  who  had 
last  had  him  in  charge,  and  to  whose  saddle  his  reins 
were  still  attached. 

The  man  cursed  his  ill-fortune;   the  others  laughed, 


162  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

''All  the  same,"  he  cried,  "if  you  play  me  false  you'll 
laugh  on  the  other  side  of  your  faces!" 

"Tut,  tut,  Martin!"  they  jeered  in  answer.  "Have 
no  fear!"  And  they  scarce  made  a  secret  of  their  in- 
tention to  cheat  him. 

The  four  turned,  laughing,  and  plunged  into  the  under- 
growth which  clothed  the  liill.  Still  their  course  could 
be  traced  by  the  snapping  of  dry  sticks,  the  scramble  of 
a  horse  on  a  steep  place,  or  the  scared  notes  of  black- 
birds, fleeing  low  among  the  bushes.  Slowly  Martin's 
eyes  followed  their  progress  along  the  hill,  and  as  his 
eyes  moved,  he  moved  also,  foot  by  foot,  through  the 
brook,  glaring,  listening,  and  now  and  then  muttering 
threats  in  his  beard. 

Had  he  glanced  round  once,  however  impatiently,  and 
seen  the  pale  face  and  feverish  eyes  at  his  elbow,  he  had 
taken  the  alarm.  Charles  knew  that  the  thing  must  be 
done  now  or  not  at  all;  and  that  there  must  be  one 
critical  moment.  If  nerve  failed  him  then,  or  the  man 
turned,  or  aught  happened  to  thwart  his  purpose  mid- 
way, he  had  far  better  have  left  the  thing  untried. 

Now  or  not  at  all!  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder 
and  saw  the  sun  shining  on  the  fiat  rushy  plat  beyond 
the  ford,  which  the  horses'  feet  had  fouled  while  their 
riders  debated.  He  saw  no  sign  of  Vlaye  coming  up, 
nor  anything  to  alarm  him.  The  road  was  clear  were 
he  once  free.  Martin's  horse  had  stepped  from  the 
water,  his  own  was  in  act  to  follow,  his  guard  sat,  there- 
fore, a  little  higher  than  himself;  in  a  flash  he  stooped, 
seized  the  other's  boot,  and  with  a  desperate  heave 
flung  him  over  on  the  off  side. 

He  clutched,  as  the  man  fell,  at  his  reins;  they  were 
life  or  death  to  him.     But  though  the  fellow  let  them 


SPEEDY  JUSTICE.  163 

slip,  the  frightened  horse  sprang  aside,  and  swung  them 
out  of  reach.  There  remained  but  one  thing  he  could 
do;  he  struck  his  own  horse  in  the  hope  it  would  run 
away  and  drag  the  other  with  it. 

But  the  other,  rearing  and  plunging,  backed  from  him, 
and  the  two,  pulling  in  different  directions,  held  their 
ground  until  the  trooper  had  risen,  run  to  his  horse's 
head  and  caught  the  reins.  "Body  of  Satan!"  he 
panted  with  a  pale  scowl;  the  fall  had  shaken  him. 
"I'll  have  your  blood  for  this!     Quiet,  beast!     Quiet!" 

In  his  passion  he  struck  the  horse  on  the  head;  an 
act  which  carried  its  punishment.  The  beast  backed 
from  him  and  dragged  him,  still  clinging  to  the  reins, 
into  the  brook.  In  a  moment  the  two  horses  were 
plunging  about  in  the  water,  and  he  following  them 
was  knee  deep.  Unfortunately  Villeneuve  was  help- 
less. All  he  could  do  was  to  strike  his  horse  and  excite 
it  further.  But  the  man  would  not  let  go,  and  the 
horses,  fastened  together,  circled  round  one  another 
until  the  trooper,  notwithstanding  their  movements, 
managed  to  shorten  the  reins,  and  at  last  got  his  horse 
by  the  bit. 

"Curse  you!"  he  said  again.  "Now  I've  got  you! 
And  in  a  minute,  my  lad,  I'll  make  you  pay  for 
this!" 

But  Villeneuve,  seeing  defeat  stare  him  in  the  face, 
had  made  use  of  the  last  few  seconds.  He  had  loosened 
the  stirrup-leather  from  the  trooper's  saddle,  and  as 
the  fellow,  thinking  the  struggle  over,  grinned  at  him, 
he  swung  the  heavy  iron  in  the  air,  and  brought  it  down 
on  the  beast's  withers.  It  leapt  forward,  maddened  by 
pain,  dashed  the  man  to  the  ground,  and  dragging 
Villeneuve's  horse  with  it,  whether  it  would  or  no,  in 


164  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

a  moment  both  were  clear  of  the  brook  and  pkmging 
along  the  bank. 

Villeneuve  struck  the  horses  again  to  urge  them  for- 
ward; but  only  to  learn  that  which  he  should  have 
recognised  before;  that  to  escape  on  a  horse,  fastened 
to  a  second,  over  difficult  ground  and  through  a  wood, 
was  not  possible.  Half -maddened,  half-bewildered, 
they  bore  him  into  a  mass  of  thorns  and  bushes.  It 
was  all  he  could  do  to  guard  his  eyes  and  head,  more 
than  they  could  do  to  keep  their  feet.  A  moment  and 
a  tough  sapling  intervened,  the  rein  which  joined  them 
snapped,  and  his  horse,  giving  to  the  tug  at  its  mouth, 
fell  on  its  near  shoulder. 

Bound  to  his  saddle,  he  could  not  save  himself,  but 
fortunately  the  soil  was  soft,  the  leg  that  was  under  the 
horse  was  not  broken,  and  for  a  moment  the  animal 
made  no  effort  to  rise.  Villeneuve,  despair  in  his  heart, 
and  the  sweat  running  down  his  face,  had  no  power  to 
rise.  Nor  would  the  power  have  availed  him,  for  before 
he  could  have  gone  a  dozen  paces  through  the  tangle  of 
thorns,  the  troopers,  some  on  horseback,  and  some  on 
foot,  were  on  him. 

The  man  from  whom  he  had  escaped  was  a  couple  of 
paces  in  front  of  the  others.  He  had  snatched  up  a 
stick,  and  black  with  rage,  raised  it  to  strike  the  pros- 
trate horse.  Had  the  blow  fallen  and  the  horse 
stmggled  to  his  feet,  Villeneuve  must  have  been  tram- 
pled. Fortunately  Baptist  was  in  time  to  catch  the 
man's  arm  and  stay  the  blow.  "Fool!"  he  said.  "Do 
you  want  to  kill  the  man?" 

"Ay,  by  Heaven!"  the  fellow  shrieked.  "He  nearly 
killed  me!" 

"Well,  you'll  not  do  it!"  Baptist  retorted,  and  he 


SPEEDY  JUSTICE.  165 

pushed  him  back.  "Do  you  hear?  I  have  no  mind 
to  account  for  hLs  loss  to  the  Captain,  if  you  have." 

"Do  you  think  that  I  am  going  to  be  pitched  on  my 
head  by  a  Jack-a-dandy  Hke  that,"  the  fellow  snarled, 
"and  do  naught?    And  where  is  my  share?" 

The  grizzled  man  stooped,  and,  while  one  of  his 
comrades  held  down  the  horse's  head,  imtied  Ville- 
neuve's  feet,  and  drew  him  from  under  the  beast. 
"Share?"  he  answered  with  a  sneer  as  he  rose.  "What 
time  had  we  to  find  the  thing?" 

"You  have  not  found  it?" 

"No — thanks  to  you!  What  kind  of  a  guard  do  you 
call  yourself?"  Baptist  continued  ferociously,  "By  this 
time,  had  you  done  your  part,  we  had  done  ours!  If 
there  Ls  to  be  any  accounting,  you'll  account  to  us!" 

"Ay,"  the  others  cried,  "Baptist  is  right,  my  lad!" 

The  man,  seeing  himself  outnumbered,  cast  a  devilish 
look  at  them.  He  turned  on  his  heel.  When  he  was 
gone  a  couple  of  paces,  "Very  good,"  he  said  over  his 
shoulder,  "but  when  I  get  you  alone " 

"You!"  Baptist  roared,  and  took  three  strides  to- 
wards him.  "You,  when  you  get  me  alone!  Stand  to 
me  now,  then,  and  let  them  see  what  you  will  do!" 

But  the  malcontent,  with  the  same  look  of  hate,  con- 
tinued to  retreat.  Baptist  jeered.  "That  is  better!" 
he  said.  "  But  we  knew  what  you  were  before !  Now, 
lads,  to  horse,  we've  lost  time  enough!" 

Flinging  a  mocking  laugh  after  the  craven  the 
troopers  turned.  But  to  meet  with  a  surprise.  By 
their  horses'  heads  stood  a  strange  man  smiling  at 
them.  "I  arrest  all  here!"  he  said  quietly.  He  had 
nothing  but  a  riding  switch  in  his  hand,  and  Villeneuve's 
eyes  opened  wide  as  he  recognised  in  him  the  guest  of 


166  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

the  Tower  Chamber.  "In  the  King's  name,  lay  down 
your  arms!" 

They  stared  at  him  as  if  he  had  fallen  from  the  skies. 
Even  Baptist  lost  the  golden  moment,  and,  in  place  of 
flinging  himself  upon  the  stranger,  repeated,  "Lay 
down  our  arms?  Who,  in  the  name  of  thunder,  are 
you?" 

"No  matter!"  the  other  answered.  "You  are  sur- 
rounded, my  man.  See!  And  see!"  He  pointed  in 
two  directions  with  his  switch. 

Baptist  glared  through  the  bushes,  and  saw  eight  or 
ten  horsemen  posted  along  the  hill-side  above  him. 
He  looked  across  the  brook,  and  there  also  were  two 
or  three  stalwart  figures,  seated  motionless  in  their 
saddles. 

The  others  looked  helplessly  to  Baptist.  ''Under- 
stand," he  said,  with  uneasy  defiance.  "You  will 
answer  for  this.    We  are  the  Captain  of  Vlaye's  men!" 

"I  know  naught  of  the  Captain  of  Vlaye,"  was  the 
stern  reply.  "Surrender,  and  your  lives  shall  be 
spared.    Resist,  and  your  blood  be  on  your  own  heads!" 

Baptist  counted  heads  rapidly,  and  saw  that  he  was 
outnumbered.  He  gave  the  word,  and  after  one  fashion 
or  another,  some  recklessly,  some  stohdly,  the  men 
threw  down  their  arms.  "Only — ^you  will  answer  for 
this!"  Baptist  repeated. 

"I  shall  answer  for  it,"  des  Ageaux  replied  gravely. 
"In  the  meantime  I  desire  a  word  with  your  prisoner. 
M.  de  Villeneuve,  this  way  if  you  please." 

He  was  proceeding  to  lead  Charles  a  little  apart.  But 
his  back  had  not  been  turned  three  seconds  when  a  thing 
happened.  The  man  who  had  slunk  away  before  Bap- 
tist's challenge  had  got  to  horse  unnoticed.     At  a  little 


SPEEDY  JUSTICE.  167 

distance  from  the  others,  he  had  not  surrendered  his 
arms.  Whether  he  could  not  from  where  he  was  see  the 
horsemen  who  guarded  the  further  side  of  the  brook^ 
and  so  thought  escape  in  that  direction  open,  or  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  wreak  his  spite  on  Baptist 
at  all  risks,  he  chose  thLs  moment  to  ride  up  behind  him, 
draw  a  pistol  from  the  holster,  and  fire  it  into  the  unfor- 
tunate man's  back.  Then  with  a  yell  that  echoed  his 
victim's  death-cry  he  crashed  through  the  undergrowth 
in  the  direction  of  the  brook. 

But  already,  "Seize  him!  Seize  him!"  rose  above 
the  wood  in  a  dozen  voices.     "On  your  life,  seize  him!" 

The  order  was  executed  almost  as  soon  as  uttered. 
As  the  horse  leaping  the  water  alighted  on  the  lower 
bank,  it  swerved  to  avoid  a  trooper  who  barred  the 
way.  The  turn  surprised  the  rider;  he  lost  his  balance. 
Before  he  could  get  back  into  his  seat,  a  trooper 
knocked  him  from  the  saddle  with  the  flat  of  his  sword. 
In  a  trice  he  was  seized,  disarmed,  and  dragged  across 
the  brook. 

But  by  that  time  Baptist,  with  three  slugs  under  his 
shoulder-blade,  lay  still  among  the  moss  and  briars,  the 
hand  that  had  beaten  time  to  a  thousand  camp-ditties 
in  a  thousand  quarters  from  Fontarabie  to  Flanders 
flung  nerveless  beside  a  wood-wren's  nest.  As  they 
gathered  round  him  Charles,  who  had  never  seen  a 
violent  death,  gazed  on  the  limp  form  with  a  pale  face, 
questioning,  with  that  wonder  which  the  thoughtful  of  all 
times  have  felt,  whither  the  mind  that  a  minute  before 
looked  from  those  sightless  eyes  had  taken  its  flight. 

He  was  roused  by  the  Lieutenant's  voice,  speaking  in 
tones  measured  and  stern  as  fate.  "Let  him  have  five 
minutes,"  he  said,  "and  then — that  tree  will  be  best!" 


168  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

They  began  to  drag  the  wretch,  now  pale  as  ashes,  in 
the  direction  indicated.  Half  way  to  the  tree  the  man 
began  to  struggle,  breaking  into  piercing  shrieks  that  he 
was  Vlaye's  man,  that  they  had  no  right 

"Stay,  right  he  shall  have!"  des  Ageaux  cried  sol- 
emnly. "He  is  judged  and  doomed  by  me.  Governor 
of  Perigord,  for  murder  in  Curia.  In  the  King's  name! 
Now  take  him!" 

The  wretch  was  dragged  off,  his  judge  to  all  appear- 
ance deaf  to  his  cries.  But  Charles  could  close  neither 
his  ears  nor  his  heart.  The  man  had  earned  his  doom 
richly.  But  to  stand  by  while  a  fellow-creature,  vainly 
shrieking*  for  mercy,  mercy,  was  strangled  within  his 
hearing,  turned  him  sick  and  faint. 

Des  Ageaux  read  his  thoughts.  "To  spare  here  were 
to  kill  there,"  he  said  coldly.  "Learn,  my  friend, 
that  to  rule  men  is  no  work  for  a  soft  heart  or  a 
gentle  hand.  But  you  are  shaken.  Come  this  way," 
he  continued  in  a  different  tone;  "you  will  be  the 
better  for  some  wine."  He  took  out  a  flask  and  gave 
it  to  Charles,  who,  excessively  thirsty  now  he  thought 
of  it,  drank  greedily.  "That  is  better,"  des  Ageaux 
went  on,  seeing  the  colour  return  to  his  cheeks. 
"  Now  I  wish  for  information.  Where  are  the  nearest 
Crocans?" 

The  young  man's  face  fell.  "The  nearest  Crocans?" 
he  muttered  mechanically. 

"Yes." 

(IT }>     ^ 

"Are  there  any  within  three  hours'  ride  of  us?" 

But  Charles  had  by  this  time  pulled  himself  together. 

He  held  out  his  wrists.     "I  am  your  prisoner,"  he  said. 

"Call  up  your  men  and  bind  me.     You  can  do  with  me 


SPEEDY  JUSTICE.  169 

as  you  please.  But  I  am  a  Villeneuve,  and  I  do  not 
betray." 

"Not  even " 

"You  saw  me  turn  pale?"  the  young  man  continued. 
"Believe  me,  I  can  bear  to  go  to  the  tree  better  than  to 
see  another  dragged  there!" 

Des  Ageaux  smiled.  "Nay,  but  you  mistake  me,  M. 
de  Villenueve,"  he  said.  "I  ask  you  to  betray  no  one. 
It  is  I  who  wish  to  enlist  with  you." 

"With  us?"  Charles  exclaimed.  And  he  stared  in 
bewilderment. 

"With  you.  In  fact  you  see  before  you,"  des  Ageaux 
continued,  his  eyes  twinkling,  his  hand  stroking  his 
short  beard,  "a  Crocan.  Frankly,  and  to  be  quite 
plain,  I  want  their  help;  a  little  later  my  help  may 
save  them.  They  fear  an  attack  by  the  Captain  of 
Vlaye?  I  am  prepared  to  aid  them  against  him.  After- 
wards  " 

"Ay,  afterwards." 

"If  they  will  hear  reason,  what  can  be  done  in  their 
behalf  I  will  dol  But  there  must  be  no  Jacquerie,  no 
burning,  and  no  plundering.  In  a  word,"  with  a  flit- 
ting smile,  "it  is  now  for  the  Crocans  to  say  whether 
the  Captain  of  Vlaye  shall  earn  the  King's  pardon  by 
quelling  them — or  they  by  quelling  him." 

"But  you  are  the  Governor  of  Perigord?"  Charles 
exclaimed. 

"I  am  the  King's  Lieutenant  in  Perigord,  which  is 
the  same  thing." 

"And  in  this  business?" 

"I  am  in  the  position  of  the  finger  which  is  set  be- 
tween the  door  and  the  jamb!  But  no  matter  for  that, 
you  will  not  understand.     Only  do  you  tell  me  where 


170  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

these  Crocans  lie,  and  we  will  visit  them  if  it  can  be 
done  before  night.  To-night  I  must  be  back" — with  a 
peculiar  look — "for  I  have  other  business." 

Charles  told  him,  and  with  joy.  Ay,  with  joy.  As  a 
sail  to  the  raft-borne  seaman  awash  in  the  Biscayan 
Gulf,  or  a  fountain  to  the  parched  wanderer  in  La 
Mancha,  this  and  more  to  him  was  the  prospect  sud- 
denly opened  before  his  eyes.  To  be  snatched  at  a 
word  from  the  false  position  in  which  he  had  placed 
himself,  and  from  which  naught  short  of  a  miracle 
could  save  him!  To  find  for  ally,  instead  of  the  broken 
farmers  and  ruined  clowns,  the  governor  of  a  great 
province!  To  be  free  to  carve  his  fortune  with  his 
right  hand  where  he  would!  These,  indeed,  were 
blessings  that  a  minute  before  had  seemed  as  far  from 
him  as  home  from  the  seaman  who  feels  his  craft  set- 
tling down  in  a  shoreless  water. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MIDNIGHT   ALARMS. 

Bonne's  first  thought  when  her  brother  darted  to 
the  stranger's  rescue  was  to  seek  aid  from  Ampoule, 
who,  it  will  be  remembered,  sat  drinking  beside  the  fire 
in  the  outer  hall.  But  the  man's  coarse  address,  and 
the  nature  of  his  employment  at  the  moment,  checked 
the  impulse;  and  the  girl  returned  to  the  window,  and, 
flattening  her  face  against  the  panes,  sought  to  learn 
what  fortune  her  brother  had.  The  fire,  still  burning 
high,  cast  its  light  as  far  as  the  gateway.  But  the 
tower  to  which  Roger  had  hastened,  being  in  a  line 
with  the  window,  was  not  visible,  and  though  Bonne 
pressed  her  face  as  closely  as  possible  against  the  panes, 
she  could  discover  nothing.  Yet  her  brother  did  not 
come  back.  The  murmur  of  jeers  and  laughter  per- 
sisted, but  he  did  not  appear. 

She  turned  at  last,  impelled  to  seek  aid  from  some 
one.  But  at  sight  of  the  room,  womanish  panic  took 
her  by  the  throat,  and  the  hysterical  fit  almost  over- 
came her.  For  what  help,  what  hope  of  help,  lay  in 
any  of  those  whom  she  saw  round  her?  The  Countess 
indeed  had  crept  to  her  side,  and  cast  her  arm  about 
her,  but  she  was  a  child,  and  ashake  already.  For  the 
others,  the  Vicomte  sat  sunk  in  lethargy,  heeding  no 

171 


172         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

one,  ignorant  apparently  that  his  son  had  left  the  room ; 
and  Fulbert,  whose  wits  had  exhausted  themselves  in 
the  effort  that  had  saved  his  mistress,  stood  faithful 
indeed,  but  brainless,  dull,  dumb.  Only  Solomon,  who 
leant  against  the  wall  beside  the  door,  his  old  face 
gloomy,  his  eyebrows  knit,  only  to  him  could  she  look 
for  a  spark  of  comfort  or  suggestion.  He,  it  was  clear, 
appreciated  the  crisis,  for  he  was  listening  intently,  his 
head  inclined,  his  hand  on  a  weapon.  But  he  was  old, 
and  there  was  not  a  man  of  Vlaye's  troopers  who  was 
not  more  than  a  match  for  him  foot  to  foot. 

Still,  he  was  her  only  hope,  if  her  brother  did  not 
return.  And  she  turned  again  to  the  casement,  and, 
scarcely  breathing,  listened  with  a  keenness  of  anxiety 
almost  indescribable.  If  only  Roger  would  return! 
Roger,  who  had  seemed  so  weak  a  prop  a  few  minutes 
before,  and  who,  now  that  she  had  lost  him,  seemed 
everything!  But  the  voices  of  Ampoule  and  his  com- 
panion disputing  in  the  outer  hall  rose  louder,  drown- 
ing more  distant  sounds;  and  the  minutes  were  pass- 
ing.    And  still  Roger  did  not  return. 

Then  a  thought  came  to  her;  or  rather  two  thoughts. 
The  first  was  that  all  now  hung  on  her — and  that 
steadied  her.  The  second,  that  he  whose  grasp  had 
brought  the  blood  to  her  cheeks  that  morning  had 
bidden  her  hold  out  to  the  last,  fight  to  the  last,  play 
the  man  to  the  last;  and  this  moved  her  to  action. 
Better  do  anything  than  succumb  like  her  father.  She 
flew  to  Solomon,  dragging  the  Countess  with  her. 

"We  are  not  safe  here,"  she  said.  "These  men  are 
drinking.  They  have  kept  Roger,  and  that  bodes  us 
no  good.  Were  it  not  better  to  go  upstairs  to  the 
Tower  Room?" 


MIDNIGHT  ALARMS.  173 

"It  were  the  best  course,"  the  old  man  answered 
slowly,  with  his  eyes  on  the  Vicomte.  "Out  and  away 
the  best  course,  mademoiselle.  Fulbert  and  I  could 
guard  the  stairs  awhile  at  any  rate." 

"Then  let  us  go!" 

But  he  looked  at  the  Vicomte.  "If  my  lord  says  so," 
he  answered.  All  his  life  the  Vicomte's  word  had  been 
his  law. 

In  a  moment  she  was  at  her  father's  side.  "The 
Countess  will  be  safer  upstairs,  sir,"  she  said,  speaking 
with  a  boldness  that  surprised  herself — but  who  could 
long  remain  in  fear  of  the  failing  old  man  whose  leaden 
eyes  met  hers  with  scarce  a  gleam  of  meaning?  "The 
Countess  is  frightened  here,  sir,"  she  continued.  "If 
you  would  guard  us  upstairs " 

"Have  done!"  he  struck  at  her  with  feeble  passion, 
and  waved  her  off.     "Let  me  alone." 

"But " 

"Peace,  girl,  I  say!"  he  repeated  irascibly.  "Who 
are  you  to  fix  comings  and  goings?  Get  to  your  stool 
and  your  needle.  God  knows,"  in  a  burst  of  childish 
petulance,  "what  the  world  is  coming  to — when  chil- 
dren order  their  elders !  But  since — there,  begone !  Be- 
gone!" 

She  wrung  her  hands  in  despair.  Outside,  fuel  was 
beginning  to  fail,  the  fire  was  burning  low,  the  court 
growing  dark.  Within,  the  two  guttering  candles 
showed  only  the  Vicomte's  figure  sunk  low  in  his  chair, 
and  here  and  there  a  pale  face  projected  from  the 
shadow.  But  the  noise  of  riot  and  disorder  did  not 
slacken,  rather  it  grew  more  menacing;  and  what  was 
she  to  do?    Desperate,  she  returned  to  the  attack. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "there  is  no  one  to  escort  the  Count- 


174         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

ess  of  Rochechouart  to  her  room.  She  wishes  to 
retire,  and  it  is  late." 

He  got  abruptly  to  his  feet,  and  looked  about  him 
with  something  of  his  ordinary  air.  "Where  is  the 
Countess?"  he  asked  peevishly.  And  then  addressing 
Solomon,  "Take  candles!  Take  candles!"  he  con- 
tinued. "And  you,  sirrah,  light  the  way!  Don't  you 
know  your  duty?  The  Countess  to  her  room!  Mor- 
dieu,  girl,  we  are  fallen  low  indeed  if  we  don't  know 
how  to  behave  to  our  guests.  Madame — or,  to  be 
sure,  Mademoiselle  la  Comtesse,"  with  a  puzzled  look 
at  the  shrinking  child,  "let  me  have  the  honour.  Things 
are  out  of  gear  to-night,  and  we  must  do  the  best  we 
can.     But  to-morrow — to-morrow  all  shall  be  in  order." 

He  marshalled  Solomon  out  and  followed,  bowing  the 
young  Countess  before  him.  Bonne  overjoyed  went 
next;  Fulbert,  like  a  patient  dog,  brought  up  the  rear. 
All  was  not  done  yet,  however,  as  Bonne  knew;  and 
she  nerved  herself  for  the  effort.  On  the  landing  her 
father  would  have  stopped,  but  she  passed  him  lightly 
and  opened  the  door  that  led  by  way  of  the  roof,  to  the 
Tower  Chamber.  "This  way!"  she  muttered  to  Solo- 
mon, as  he  hesitated.  "The  Countess  is  timid  to-night, 
sir,"  she  continued  aloud,  "and  craves  leave  to  lie  in 
the  Tower  as  the  room  is  empty." 

He  frowned.  "Still  this  silliness!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
then  passing  his  hand  over  his  brow,  "  There  was  some- 
thing said  about  it,  I  remember.     But  I  thought  I " 

"Gave  permission,  sir?  Yes!"  Bonne  murmured, 
pushmg  the  girl  steadily  forward.  "Solomon,  do  you 
hear?    Light  along  the  leads!" 

Great  as  was  his  fear  of  the  Vicomte,  the  old  porter 
succumbed  to  her  will,  and  all  were  on  the  point  of 


MIDNIGHT  ALARMS.  175 

following,  when  a  door  on  the  landing  opened,  and  the 
Abbess  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  her  room.  She 
held  a  light  above  her  head,  and  with  a  sneer  on  her 
handsome  face,  contemplated  the  group. 

"What  is  this?"  she  asked.  And  then,  gathering 
their  intention  from  their  looks — ^possibly  she  had  had 
some  inkling  of  it,  "You  do  not  mean  to  tell  me,"  she 
continued,  partly  in  temper,  and  partly  in  feigned  sur 
prise,  "that  a  half-dozen  of  roystering  troopers,  sir,  are 
driving  the  Vicomte  de  Villeneuve  from  his  own  cham- 
ber? To  take  refuge  among  the  owls  and  bats?  For 
shame,  sir,  for  shame!" 

Bonne  tried  to  stay  her  by  a  gesture. 

In  vain.  "A  fine  tale  they  will  have  to  tell  to-morrow!" 
the  elder  sister  continued  in  tones  of  savage  raillery. 
"M.  de  Villeneuve  afraid  of  a  handful  of  rascals,  whom 
their  master  keeps  within  bounds  with  a  stick!  The 
Lord  of  Villeneuve  bearded  in  his  own  house  by  a  scimi 
of  riders!" 

"Peace,  daughter!"  the  Vicomte  cried;  he  even  raised 
his  hand  in  anger.  "You  lie!  It  is  not  I" — his  head 
trembling — "  I  indeed,  but  the  Countess !  You  don't  see 
her.     The  Countess  of  Rochechouart " 

"Oh!"  said  the  Abbess.  And,  the  light  she  held 
shining  on  her  arrogant  beauty,  she  swept  a  great  curtsy, 
as  if  she  had  not  seen  her  intended  guest  before;  as  if 
her  scornful  eyes  had  not  from  the  first  descried  the 
girl;  as  if  the  small  beginnings  of  hate,  hate  that  scarcely 
knew  itself,  were  not  already  in  her  breast.  "Oh,"  she 
said  again,  "it  is  the  Countess  of  Rochechouart,  is  it, 
who  is  afraid?" 

"And  with  reason,"  Bonne  answered,  intervening 
huiTicdly,  but  in  a  low  voice.     "The  men  are  drinking 


176  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

and  growing  violent.  Roger  went  to  them  some  time 
ago,  and  has  not  come  back," 

"Roger!"  the  Abbess  ejaculated,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.     "  Did  you  think  that  he  could  do  anything?" 

But  she  who  of  all  those  present  seemed  least  likely  to 
interfere  spoke  up  at  that.  Whether  the  young  Countess 
resented — Heaven  knows  why  she  should — the  sneer  at 
Roger's  expense,  or  only  the  contempt  of  herself  which 
the  Abbess's  manner  expressed,  she  plucked  up  a  spirit. 
After  all  she  was  not  only  a  Rochechouart,  but  she  was 
a  woman;  and  there  is  in  all  women,  even  the  meekest,  a 
spark  of  temper  that,  being  fanned  by  one  of  their  own 
sex,  blazes  up.  ''It  is  true,"  she  rephed  coldly,  her  face 
faintly  pink.  "It  is  I  who  am  afraid,  mademoiselle. 
But  it  is  not  of  the  men  downstairs.  It  is  their  master 
whom  I  fear." 

"You  fear  M.  de  Vlaye?"  the  Abbess  repeated.  And 
she  laughed  aloud,  a  little  over  merrily,  at  the  absurdity 
of  the  notion,  "You— fear  M,  de  Vlaye?  Why?  If  I 
may  venture  to  ask?" 

"Why?"  the  Countess  replied.  She  had  learned  some- 
what during  the  day,  and  was  too  young  to  hide  her 
knowledge,  being  provoked,  "Do  you  ask  why,  made- 
moiselle? Because,  to  be  plain,  I  fear  that  which  it  may 
be  you  do  not  fear." 

The  Abbess  flushed  crimson  to  her  very  throat.  "And 
what,  to  be  plain,  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  retorted 
in  a  tone  that  shook  with  passion.  "If  you  think  that 
this  story  is  true  that  they  tell " 

"That  M,  de  Vlaye  waylaid  and  would  have  seized 
me?"  the  little  Countess  retorted  undismayed,  "It  is 
quite  true." 

"You  say  that!"     The  young  Abbess  was  pale  and 


MIDNIGHT  ALARMS.  177 

red  by  turns.  "How  do  you  know?  What  do  you 
know?" 

"I  know  the  Captain  of  Vlaye/'  the  girl  answered 
firmly.  "  I  have  seen  him  more  than  once  at  Angouleme, 
His  mask  fell  yesterday,  and  I  could  not  be  mistaken. 
It  was  he!" 

The  Abbess  bit  her  lip  until  the  blood  came  in  the 
vain  attempt  to  mask  feelings  which  her  temper  rendered 
her  impotent  to  control.  She  no  longer  doubted  the  story. 
She  saw  that  it  was  true;  and  jealousy,  rage,  and 
amazement — amazement  at  Vlaye's  treachery,  amaze- 
ment at  the  discovery  of  a  rival  in  one  so  insignificant  in 
all  save  rank — deprived  her  of  the  power  of  speech.  For- 
tunately at  this  moment  the  clash  of  steel  reached  Solo- 
mon's ears,  and,  startled,  the  porter  gave  the  alarm. 

"My  lord,  they  are  fighting!"  he  cried.  And  then 
emboldened  by  the  emergency,  "  Were  it  not  well,"  he 
continued,  "to  put  the  ladies  in  a  place  of  safety?" 

The  Vicomte,  urged  up  the  steps  by  the  women, 
leant  over  the  parapet,  and  learned  the  truth  for  himself. 
Bonne,  the  Countess,  the  Abbess  and  her  women,  all 
followed,  and  in  a  twinkling  were  standing  on  the  roof  in 
the  dark  night,  the  round  tower  rising  beside  them,  and 
the  croaking  of  the  frogs  coming  up  to  them  from  below. 

But  the  brief  clash  of  weapons  was  over,  and  they 
could  make  out  no  more  than  a  group  of  figures  gathered 
about  two  prostrate  men.  The  movement  of  the  lights, 
now  here  now  there,  augmented  the  difficulty  of  seeing, 
and  for  a  while  Bonne's  heart  stood  still.  She  made  no 
lamentations,  for  she  came  of  the  old  blood,  but  she 
thought  Roger  dead.  And  then  a  man  raised  a  light, 
and  she  distinguished  his  figure  leaning  over  one  of  the 
injured  men. 


178  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Thank  God!"  she  muraiured.  "There  is  Roger. 
He  is  not  hurt!" 

"Who  are  they?  Who  are  they?"  the  Vicomte 
babbled,  ehnging  to  the  parapet.  "Eh?  Who  are 
they?    Cannot  any  one  see?" 

But  no  one  could  see,  and  the  Abbess's  women  began 
to  cry.  She  paid  no  heed  to  them.  She  leant  with  the 
others  over  the  parapet,  and  she  listened  with  them  to  the 
shuffling  feet  of  the  men  below,  as  slowly  in  a  double 
line  they  bore  the  cloaked  form  towards  the  house.  But 
whether  their  thoughts  were  her  thoughts,  their  anxiety 
her  anxiety,  whether  she  was  wrapt,  as  they  were,  in  the 
scene  that  passed  below,  or  chewed  instead  the  cud  of 
other  and  more  bitter  reflections,  was  known  only  to 
herself.  Her  proud  spirit,  whose  worst  failings  hitherto 
had  not  gone  beyond  selfishness  and  vanity,  hung,  it 
may  be,  during  those  moments  between  good  and  evil, 
the  better  and  the  worse;  took,  perhaps,  the  turn  that 
must  decide  its  life;  flung  from  it,  perhaps,  in  passionate 
abandonment  the  last  heart-strings  that  bound  it  to  the 
purer  and  more  generous  affections. 

Perhaps;  but  none  of  those  who  stood  beside  her  had 
an  inklmg  of  her  mood.  For  the  troopers  had  passed 
with  their  mysterious  burden  into  the  house,  and  no 
sooner  were  they  gone  than  one  of  the  Abbess's  women 
cried  in  a  panic  that  they  would  be  murdered,  and  in 
a  trice  all,  succumbing  to  the  impulse,  made  for  the 
Tower  Chamber,  and  herded  into  it  pell-mell,  some 
shrugging  their  shoulders  and  f- ho  wing  that  they  gave 
way  to  the  more  timid,  and  the  men  not  knowing  from 
whom  to  take  orders.  In  the  chamber  were  already 
two  or  three  of  the  house-women,  who  had  sought  that 
refuge  earlier  in  the  evening,  and  these,  seeing  the 


MIDNIGHT  ALARMS.  179 

Vicomte,  looked  for  nothing  but  slaughter,  and  by 
their  shrill  lamentations  added  to  the  confusion. 

The  security  of  all  depended  entirely  on  their  holding 
the  way  across  the  leads,  and  here  the  men  should  have 
remained;  but  the  women  would  not  part  with  them 
and  all  entered  together.  Some  one  locked  the  outer 
door,  and  there  they  were,  in  all  eleven  or  twelve  per- 
sons, in  the  great,  dreary  chamber,  where  a  few  feeble 
candles  that  served  to  make  darkness  visible  disclosed 
their  blanched  faces.  At  the  slightest  sound  the  women 
shrieked  or  clung  to  one  another,  and  with  every  sec- 
ond the  boldest  expected  to  hear  the  tramp  of  feet 
without,  and  the  clatter  of  weapons  on  the  oak. 

There  was  something  ridiculous  in  this  noisy  panic; 
yet  somethmg  terrifying  also  to  those  who,  like  Bonne, 
kept  their  heads.  She  strove  in  vain  to  make  herseK 
heard;  her  voice  was  drowned;  the  disorder  over- 
whelmed her  as  a  flood  overwhelms  a  strong  swimmer. 
She  seized  a  girl  by  the  arm  to  silence  her:  the  wench 
took  it  for  a  fresh  alarm  and  squalled  the  louder.  She 
flew  to  her  father  and  begged  him  to  interpose;  flur- 
ried, he  fell  into  a  rage  with  her,  and  stormed  at  her 
as  if  it  were  she  who  caused  the  confusion.  For  the 
others,  the  young  Countess,  though  quiet,  was  scared; 
and  Odette,  seated  at  a  distance,  noticed  her  com- 
panions only  at  intervals  in  the  dark  current  of  her 
thoughts — and  then  with  a  look  of  disdain. 

At  length  Bonne  betook  herself  to  Solomon.  "Some 
one  should  hold  the  roof!"  she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Ay,  ay,  mademoi- 
selle," he  said,  "but  we  have  no  orders  and  the  door  is 
locked,  and  he  has  the  key." 

"You  could  do  something  there?" 


180         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Ay,  if  we  had  orders." 

She  flew  to  the  Vicomte  at  that.  "Some  one  should 
be  holding  the  roof,  sir,"  she  said.  "Solomon  and 
Fulbert  could  maintain  it  awhile.  Could  you  not  give 
them  orders?" 

He  swore  at  her.  "We  are  mad  to  be  here,"  he  ex- 
claimed, veering  about  on  an  instant.  "This  comes  of 
letting  women  have  a  voice!  Silence,  you  hell-babes!" 
he  continued,  turning  with  his  staff  raised  upon  two  of 
the  women,  who  had  chosen  that  moment  to  raise  a 
new  outcry.     "We  are  all  mad!    Mad,  I  say!" 

"I  will  silence  them,  sir,"  she  answered.  And  step- 
ping on  a  bed,  "Listen!  Listen  to  me!"  she  cried 
stoutly.  "We  are  in  little  danger  here  if  we  are  quiet. 
Therefore  let  us  make  no  noise.  They  will  not  then 
know  where  to  find  us.  And  let  the  men  go  to  the 
door,  and  the  maids  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
And " 

Shrieks  stopped  her.  The  two  whom  the  Vicomte 
had  upbraided  flung  themselves  screaming  on  Solomon. 
"The  window!  The  window!"  they  cried,  glaring  over 
their  shoulders.  And  before  the  astonished  old  man 
could  free  himself,  or  the  Vicomte  give  vent  to  his  pas- 
sion, "The  window!  They  are  coming  in!"  they 
shrieked. 

The  words  were  the  signal  for  a  wild  rush  towards  the 
door.  Two  or  three  of  the  candles  were  knocked  down, 
the  Vicomte  was  well-nigh  carried  off  his  legs,  the 
Abbess,  who  tried  to  rise,  was  pinned  where  she  was  by 
her  women ;  who  flung  themselves  on  their  knees  before 
her  and  hid  their  faces  in  her  robe.  Only  Bonne,  in- 
terrupted in  the  midst  of  her  appeal,  retained  both  her 
presence  of  mmd  and  her  freedom  of  action.    After 


MIDNIGHT  ALARMS.  181 

obeying  the  generous  instinct  which  bade  her  thrust  the 
young  Countess  behind  her,  she  remained  motionless, 
staring  intently  at  the  window — ^staring  in  a  mixture  of 
hope  and  fear. 

The  hope  was  justified.  They  were  the  faces  of 
friends  that  showed  in  the  dark  opening  of  the  window. 
They  were  friends  who  entered — Charles  first,  that  the 
alarm  might  be  the  sooner  quelled,  des  Ageaux  second; 
if  first  and  second  they  could  be  called,  when  the  feet  of 
the  two  touched  the  floor  almost  at  the  same  instant. 
But  Charles  wore  a  new  and  radiant  face,  and  des 
Ageaux  a  look  of  command,  that  to  Bonne  after  what 
she  had  gone  through  was  as  wine  to  a  fainting  man. 
There  were  some  whom  that  look  did  not  reach,  but 
even  these — women  with  their  faces  hidden — stilled 
their  cries,  and  raised  their  heads  when  he  spoke.  For 
a  trumpet  could  not  have  nmg  more  firm  in  that  panic- 
laden  air. 

"We  are  friends  1"  he  said.  "And  we  are  in  time! 
M.  le  Vicomte,  we  must  act  and  ask  your  leave  after- 
wards." Turning  again  to  the  window  he  spoke  to  the 
night. 

Not  in  vain.  At  the  word  troopers  came  tumbling  in 
man  after  man;  the  foremost,  a  lean,  lank-visaged 
veteran,  who  looked  neither  to  right  nor  left,  but  in 
three  strides,  and  with  one  salute  in  the  Vicomte 's 
direction,  put  himself  at  the  door  and  on  guard.  He 
had  a  long,  odd-looking  sword  with  a  steel  basket  hilt, 
with  which  he  signed  to  the  men  to  stand  here  or  there. 

For  they  continued  to  come  in,  until  the  Vicomte, 
stunned  by  the  sight  of  his  son,  awoke  to  fresh  wonder; 
and,  speechless,  counted  a  round  dozen  and  three  to 
boot,  besides  his  guest  and  Charles.    Moreover  they 


182  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

were  men  of  a  certain  stamp,  quiet  but  grim,  who, 
being  bidden,  did  and  asked  no  questions. 

When  they  had  all  filed  through  the  group  of  staring 
women  now  fallen  silent,  and  had  ranged  themselves 
beside  the  Bat — for  he  it  was — at  the  door,  des  Ageaux 
spoke. 

"Do  you  hear  them?" 

''No,  my  lord." 

"Unlock  softly,  then,  but  do  not  open!  And  wait 
the  word!  M.  le  Vicomte" — he  turned  courteously  to 
the  old  man — "the  occasion  presses,  or  I  would  ask 
your  pardon.  Mademoiselle" — but  as  he  turned  to 
Bonne  he  lowered  his  voice,  and  what  he  said  escaped 
other  ears.  Not  her  ears,  for  from  brow  to  neck,  though 
he  had  but  praised  her  courage  and  firmness,  she 
blushed  vividly. 

"I  did  only  what  I  could,"  she  replied,  lifting  her 
eyes  once  to  his  and  as  quickly  dropping  them.  "  Ro- 
ger  " 

"Ha!    What  of  Roger?" 

She  told  him  as  concisely  as  she  could. 

He  knit  his  brows.  "That  was  not  of  my  contriv- 
ance," he  said.  And  then  with  a  gleam  of  humour  in 
his  eyes,  "Masked  was  he?  Another  knight-errant,  it 
seems,  and  less  fortunate  than  the  first!  You  do  not 
lack  supporters  in  your  misfortunes,  mademoiselle. 
But— what  is  it?" 

"They  come,  my  lord,"  the  Bat  answered,  raising  his 
hand  to  gain  attention. 

All,  at  the  word,  listened  with  quickened  pulses,  and 
in  the  silence  the  harsh  rending  of  wood  came  to  the 
ear,  a  little  dulled  by  distance.  Then  a  murmur  of 
voices,  then  another  crash!    The  men  about  the  door 


MIDNIGHT  ALARMS.  183 

poised  themselves,  each  with  a  foot  advanced,  and  his 
weapon  ready;  their  strained  muscles  and  gleaming 
eyes  told  of  their  excitement.  A  moment  and  they 
would  be  let  loose!  A  moment — and  then,  too  late, 
Bonne  saw  Charles  beside  the  Bat. 

Too  late;  but  it  mattered  nothing.  She  might  have 
spoken,  but  he,  panting  for  the  fight,  exulting  in  the 
occasion,  would  not  have  heeded  if  an  angel  had  spoken. 
And  before  she  could  find  words,  the  thing  was  done. 
The  Bat  flung  the  door  open,  and  with  a  roar  of  defiance 
the  mob  of  men  charged  out  and  across  the  roof,  Charles 
among  the  foremost. 

A  shot,  a  scream,  a  tumult  of  cries,  the  jarring  of  steel 
on  steel,  and  the  fight  rolled  down  through  the  house 
in  a  whirl  of  strident  voices.  The  candles,  long-wicked 
and  guttering,  flamed  wildly  in  the  wind;  the  room 
was  half  in  shadow,  half  in  light.  The  Vicomte,  who 
had  seen  all  in  a  maze  of  stupefaction,  stiffened  himself — 
as  the  old  war-horse  that  scents  the  battle.  Bonne  hid 
her  face  and  prayed. 

Not  so  the  Abbess.  She  sat  unmoved,  a  sneer  on  her 
face,  a  dark  look  in  her  eyes.  And  so  Bonne,  glancing 
up,  saw  her;  and  a  strange  pang  shot  through  the 
younger  girl's  breast.  If  he  had  praised  her  courage — 
and  that  with  a  look  and  in  a  tone  that  had  brought 
the  blood  to  her  cheeks — what  would  he  think  of  her 
handsome  sister?  How  could  he  fail  to  admire  her, 
not  for  her  beauty  only,  but  for  her  stately  pride,  for 
the  composure  that  not  even  this  could  alter,  for  the 
challenge  that  shone  in  her  haughty  eyes? 

The  next  moment  Bonne  reproached  herself  for 
entertaining  such  a  thought,  while  Charles's  life  and 
perhaps  Roger's  hung  in  the  balance,  and  the  cries  of 


184  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

men  in  direst  straits  still  rung  in  her  ears.  What  a 
worm  she  was,  what  a  crawling  thing  I  God  pardon  her! 
God  protect  them! 

The  Abbess's  voice — she  had  risen  at  last  and  moved 
— cut  short  her  supplications.  "Who  is  he?"  Odette 
de  Villeneuve  muttered  in  a  fierce  whisper.  "Who  is 
he,  girl?"  She  pointed  to  des  Ageaux,  who  kept  his 
station  on  the  threshold,  his  ear  following  the  course  of 
the  fight.  "Who  is  that  man?  They  call  him  my 
lord!    Who  is  he?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  Bonne  said. 

"You  do  not  know?" 

"No." 

The  candles  flared  higher.  The  Lieutenant  turned 
and  saw  the  two  sisters  standing  together  looking  at 
him. 

He  crossed  the  room  to  them,  halting  midway  to 
listen,  his  attention  divided  between  them  and  the  con- 
flict below.  His  eyes  dwelt  awhile  on  the  Abbess,  but 
settled,  as  he  drew  nearer,  on  Bonne.  He  desired  to 
reassure  her,  "Have  no  fear,  mademoiselle,"  he  said 
quietly.  "Your  brother  runs  little  risk.  They  were 
taken  by  surprise.    By  this  time  it  is  over." 

The  Vicomte  heard  and  his  lips  trembled,  but  no 
words  came.  It  was  the  Abbess  who  spoke  for  him. 
"And  what  next?"  she  asked  harshly. 

Des  Ageaux,  still  lending  an  ear  to  the  sounds  below, 
looked  at  her  with  attention,  but  did  not  answer. 

"What  next?"  she  repeated.  "You  have  entered 
forcibly.     By  what  right?" 

"The  right,  mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  "that  every 
man  has  to  resist  a  wrong.  The  right  that  every  man 
has  to  protect  women,  and  to  save  his  friends.    If  you 


MIDNIGHT  ALARMS.  185 

desire  more  than  this,"  he  continued,  with  a  change  of 
tone  that  answered  the  challenge  of  her  eyes,  "in  the 
King's  name,  mademoiselle,  and  my  own!" 

''And  you  are?" 

"His  Majesty's  Lieutenant  in  Perigord,"  he  answered, 
bowdng.  His  attention  was  fixed  on  her,  yet  he  was 
vividly  conscious  of  the  colour  that  mounted  suddenly 
to  Bonne's  cheeks,  dyed  her  brows,  shone  in  her  eyes. 

"Of  Perigord?"  the  Abbess  repeated  in  astonishment. 

"Of  Perigord,"  he  replied,  bowing  again.  "It  is 
true,"  he  continued,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "that  I 
am  a  league  or  two  beyond  my  border,  but  great  wrongs 
beget  Httle  ones,  mademoiselle." 

She  hated  him.  As  he  stood  there  successful,  she 
hated  him.  But  she  had  not  found  an  answer,  nor  had 
Bonne  stilled  the  fluttering,  half  painful,  half  pleasant, 
of  her  heart,  when  the  tread  of  returning  feet  heralded 
news.  The  Bat  and  two  others  entered,  bearing  a 
lanthom  that  lit  up  their  damp  swarthy  faces.  The 
first  was  Roger. 

He  was  wildly  excited.  "Great  news!"  he  cried, 
waving  his  hand.  "Great  news!  I  have  downstairs " 

One  look  from  des  Ageaux's  eyes  silenced  him.  Des 
Ageaux  looked  from  him  to  the  Bat.  "What  have  you 
done?"  he  asked  curtly. 

"Taken  two  unwounded,  three  wounded,"  the  tall 
man  answered  as  briefly.     "The  others  escaped." 

"Their  horses?" 

"We  have  their  horses." 

Des  Ageaux  paused  an  instant.  Then,  "You  have 
closed  the  gates?" 

"And  set  a  guard,  my  lord!"  the  Bat  answered. 
"We  have  no  wounded,  but " 


186         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"The  Duke  of  Joyeuse  lies  below,  and  is  wounded!" 
Roger  cried  in  a  breath.     He  could  restrain  himself  no 
longer. 

If  his  object  was  to  shatter  des  Ageaux's  indifference, 
he  succeeded  to  a  marvel.  "The  Duke  of  Joyeuse?" 
the  Lieutenant  exclaimed  in  stupefaction.  "Impos- 
sible!" 

"But  no!"  Roger  retorted.  "He  is  lying  below- 
wounded.     It  is  not  impossible!" 

"But  he  was  not — of  those?"  des  Ageaux  returned, 
indicating  by  a  gesture  the  men  whom  they  had  just 
expelled.  For  an  instant  the  notion  that  he  had  at- 
tacked and  routed  friends  instead  of  foes  darkened  his 
face. 

"No!"  Roger  explained  fluently— excitement  had  rid 
him  of  his  diffidence.  "No!  He  was  the  man  who 
rode  into  the  courtyard — ^but  you  have  not  heard? 
They  were  going  to  maltreat  him,  and  he  killed  their 
leader,  Ampoule — that  was  before  you  came!"  Roger's 
eyes  shone;  it  was  evident  that  he  had  transferred  his 
allegiance. 

Des  Ageaux's  look  sought  the  Bat  and  asked  a  ques- 
tion. "There  is  a  dead  man  below,"  the  Bat  answered. 
"He  had  it  through  the  throat." 

"And  the  Duke  of  Joyeuse?" 

"He  is  there — alone  apparently." 

"Alone?" 

The  Bat's  eyes  sought  the  wall  and  gazed  on  it  stonily, 
"There  are  more  fools  than  one  in  the  world,"  he  said 
gruffly. 

Des  Ageaux  pondered  an  instant.  Then,  "I  will  see 
him,"  he  said.  "But  first,"  he  turned  courteously  to 
the  Vicomte,  "I  have  to  provide  for  your  safety,  M.  le 


MIDNIGHT  ALARMS.  187 

Vicointe,  and  that  of  your  family.  I  can  only  ensure 
it,  I  fear,  by  removing  you  from  here.  I  have  not  suf- 
ficient force  to  hold  the  chateau,  and  short  of  that  I 
see  no  way  of  protecting  you  from  the  Captain  of 
Vlaj'-e's  resentment." 

The  Vicomte,  who  had  aged  years  in  the  last  few 
days,  as  the  old  sometimes  do,  sat  down  weakly  on  a 
bed.  "Go — ^from  here?"  he  muttered,  his  hands  mov- 
ing nervously  on  his  knees.     "From  my  house?" 

"It  is  necessary." 

"Why?"  A  younger  and  stronger  voice  flung  the 
question  at  des  Ageaux.  The  Abbess  stood  forward 
beside  her  father.  "Why?"  she  repeated  imperiously. 
"Why  should  we  go  from  here — from  our  own  house? 
Or  why  should  we  fear  M.  de  Vlaye?" 

"To  the  latter  question — because  he  does  not  lightly 
forgive,  mademoiselle,"  des  Ageaux  replied  drily.  "To 
the  former  because  I  have  neither  men  nor  means  to 
defend  this  house.  To  both,  because  you  have  with 
you" — ^lie  pointed  to  the  Countess — "this  lady,  whom 
it  is  not  consonant  with  the  Vicomte 's  honour  either  to 
abandon  or  to  surrender.  To  be  plain,  M.  de  Vlaye's 
plans  have  been  thwarted  and  his  men  routed,  and 
to-morrow's  sun  will  not  be  an  hour  high  before  he 
takes  the  road.  To  remain  here  were  to  abide  the 
utmost  of  his  power;  which,"  he  added  drily,  "Is  at 
present  of  importance,  however  it  may  stand  in  a 
week's  time." 

She  looked  at  him  darkly  beautiful,  temper  and  high 
disdain  in  her  face.  And  as  she  looked  there  began  to 
take  shape  in  her  mind  the  wish  to  destroy  him ;  a  wish 
that  even  as  she  looked,  in  a  space  of  time  too  short  to 
be  measured  by  our  clumsy  methods,  became  a  fixed 


188  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

thought.  Why  had  he  intervened?  Who  had  invited 
him  to  intervene?  With  a  woman's  inconsistency  she 
left  out  of  sight  the  wrong  M.  de  Vla3^e  would  have 
done  her,  she  forgot  the  child-Countess,  she  overlooked 
all  except  that  this  man  was  the  enemy  of  the  man  she 
loved.  She  felt  that  but  for  liim  all  would  have  been 
well !  But  for  him — for  even  that  she  laid  at  his  door — 
and  his  hostility  the  Captain  of  Vlaye  had  never  been 
driven  to  think  of  that  other  way  of  securing  his  for- 
tunes. 

These  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind  in  a  pause 
so  short  that  the  listeners  scarcely  marked  it  for  a 
pause.     Then,  "And  if  we  wall  not  go?"  she  cried. 

"All  in  the  house  will  go,"  he  replied. 

"Whither?" 

"I  shall  decide  that,"  he  answered  coldly.  And  he 
turned  from  her.  Before  she  could  retort  he  was  giv- 
ing orders,  and  men  were  commg  and  going  and  calling 
to  one  another,  and  lights  were  flitting  in  all  directions 
through  the  house,  and  all  about  her  was  hubbub  and 
stir  and  confusion.  She  saw  that  resistance  was 
vain.  Her  father  was  passive,  her  brothers  were  des 
Ageaux's  most  eager  ministrants.  The  servants  were 
awed  into  silence,  or,  like  old  Solomon,  who  for  once 
-vvas  mute  on  the  glories  of  the  race,  were  anxious  to 
escape  for  their  own  sakes. 

Then  into  her  hatred  of  him  entered  a  little  of  that 
leaven  of  fear  which  makes  hatred  active.  For  amid 
the  confusion  he  was  cool.  His  voice  was  firm,  his  eye 
commanded  on  this  side,  his  hand  beckoned  on  that, 
men  ran  for  him.  She  knew  the  dread  in  which  M.  de 
Vlaye  was  held.  But  this  she  saw  was  not  the  awe  in 
which  men  hold  him  whose  caprice  it  may  be  to  punish, 


MIDNIGHT  ALARMS.  189 

but  the  awe  in  which  men  stand  of  him  who  is  just; 
whose  nature  it  is  out  of  chaos  to  create  order,  and  who 
to  that  end  will  spend  himself  and  all.  A  man  cold 
of  face  and  something  passionless;  even  hard,  we  have 
seen,  when  a  rope,  a  bough,  and  a  villain  forced  them- 
selves on  his  attention. 

She  would  not  have  known  him  had  she  seen  him 
leaning  over  Joyeuse  a  few  minutes  later,  while  his  lean 
subaltern  held  a  shaded  taper  on  the  other  side  of  the 
makeshift  pallet.  The  door  was  locked  on  them,  they 
had  the  room  to  themselves,  and  between  them  the 
Duke  lay  in  the  dead  sleep  of  exhaustion.  "I  do  not 
think  that  we  can  move  him,"  des  Ageaux  muttered, 
his  brow  clouded  by  care. 

The  Bat,  with  the  light  touch  of  one  who  had  handled 
many  a  dying  man,  felt  the  Duke's  pulse,  without  rous- 
ing him,     "He  will  bear  it,"  he  said,  "in  a  litter." 

"Over  that  road?    Think  what  a  road  it  is!" 

"Needs  must!" 

"He  brought  the  money,  found  me  gone,  and  fol- 
lowed," des  Ageaux  murmured  in  a  voice  softening  by 
feeling.     "You  think  we  dare  take  him?" 

"To  leave  him  to  the  Captam  of  Vlaye  were  worse." 

"Worse  for  us,"  des  Ageaux  muttered  doubtfully. 
"That  is  true." 

"Worse  for  all,"  the  Bat  grunted.  He  took  liberties 
in  private  that  for  all  the  world  he  would  not  have  had 
suspected. 

Still  his  master,  who  had  been  so  firm  above-stairs, 
hung  undecided  over  the  sick  man's  couch.  "M.  de 
Vlaye  would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  harm  him,"  he  said. 

"He  would  only  pluck  him!"  the  Bat  retorted. 
"And  wing  us  with  the  first  feather,  the  Lady  Countess 


190  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

with  the  second,  the  Orocans  with  the  third,  and  the 
King  with  the  fourth."  He  stopped.  It  was  a  long 
speech  for  him. 

Des  Ageaux  assented.  "Yes,  he  is  the  master-card," 
he  said  slowly.  "I  suppose  we  must  take  him.  But 
Heavens  knows  how  we  shall  get  him  there." 

"Leave  that  to  me!"  said  the  Bat,  undertaking  more 
than  he  knew.  Nor  did  he  guess  with  whose  assistance 
he  was  to  perform  the  task. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE    CHAPEL    BY   THE    FORD. 


It  was  after  midnight,  and  the  young  moon  had  set 
when  they  came,  a  long  procession  of  riders,  to  the  ford 
in  which  des  Ageaux  had  laved  his  horse's  legs  on  the 
evening  of  his  arrival.  But  the  night  was  starlight,  and 
behind  them  the  bonfire,  which  the  men  had  rekindled 
that  its  blaze  might  aid  their  preparations,  was  re- 
flected in  a  faint  glow  above  the  trees.  As  they  splashed 
through  the  shallows  the  frogs  fell  silent,  scared  by  the 
invasion,  but  an  owl  that  was  mousing  on  the  slope  of 
the  downs  between  them  and  the  dim  lifted  horizon 
continued  its  melancholy  hooting.  The  women  shiv- 
ered as  the  cool  air  embraced  them,  and  one  here  and 
there,  as  her  horse,  deceived  by  the  waving  weeds,  set 
a  foot  wrong,  shrieked  low. 

But  no  one  hesitated,  for  the  Bat  had  put  fear  into 
them. 

He  had  told  them  in  the  fewest  possible  words  that  in 
ninety  minutes  M.  de  Vlaye  would  be  knocking  at  the 
gate  they  left!  And  how  long  the  pursuit  would  tarry 
after  that  he  left  to  their  imaginations.  The  result 
justified  his  course ;  the  ford,  that  in  daylight  was  a  ter- 
ror to  the  timid,  was  passed  without  demur.  One  by 
one  their  horses  stepped  from  its  dark  smooth-sliding 

191 


192  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

water,  turned  right-handed,  and  falling  into  line  set 
their  heads  up-stream  towards  the  broken  hills  and  ob- 
scure winding  valleys  whence  the  river  flowed. 

Hampered  by  the  wounded  man's  litter  and  the  night, 
they  could  not  hope  to  make  more  than  a  league  in  the 
hour,  and  with  the  first  morning  light  might  expect  to 
be  overtaken.  But  des  Ageaux  considered  that  the 
Captain  of  Vlaye,  ignorant  of  his  force,  would  not  dare 
to  follow  at  speed.  And  in  the  beginning  all  went 
well. 

Over  smooth  turf,  they  made  for  half  a  league  good 
progress,  the  long  bulk  of  the  chalk  hill  accompanying 
them  on  the  left,  while  on  the  right  the  vague  gloom  of 
the  wooded  valley,  teeming  with  mysterious  rustlings  and 
shrill  night  cries,  drew  many  a  woman's  eyes  over  her 
shoulder.  But,  as  the  bearers  of  the  litter  could  only 
proceed  at  a  walking  pace,  the  long  line  of  shadowy  riders 
had  not  progressed  far  before  a  gap  appeared  in  its  ranks 
and  insensibly  grew  wider.  Presently  the  two  bodies 
were  moving  a  hundred  yards  apart,  and  henceforward 
the  rugged  surface  of  the  road,  which  was  such  as  to 
hamper  the  litter  without  delaying  the  riders,  quickly 
augmented  the  interval. 

The  Vicomte  was  mounted  on  his  own  grizzled  pony, 
and  with  his  two  daughters  and  Roger  rode  at  the  head 
of  the  first  party.  They  had  not  proceeded  far  before 
Bonne  remarked  that  her  sister  was  missing.  She  was 
sure  that  the  Abbess  had  been  at  her  side  when  she 
crossed  the  ford,  and  for  a  short  time  aftei-wards.  Why 
had  she  left  them?    And  w^here  was  she? 

Not  in  front,  for  only  the  Bat  and  Charles,  who  had 
attached  himself  to  the  veteran,  and  was  drinking  m  gruff 
tales  of  leaguer  at  his  lips,  were  in  front.    Behind,  then? 


THE  CHAPEL  BY  THE  FORD.  193 

Bonne  turned  her  head  and  strove  to  learn.  But  the 
light  of  the  stars  and  the  night — June  nights  are  at  no 
hour  quite  dark — allowed  her  to  see  only  the  persons  who 
rode  immediately  behind  her.  They  were  Roger  and 
the  Countess.  On  their  heels  came  two  more — men  for 
certain.  The  rest  were  shadows,  bobbing  vaguely  along, 
dim  one  moment,  lost  the  next. 

Presently  Charles,  also,  missed  the  Abbess,  and  asked 
where  she  was. 

Roger  could  only  answer:   "To  the  rear  somewhere." 

"Learn  where  she  is,"  Charles  returned.  "Pass  the 
word  back,  lad.     Ask  who  is  with  her." 

Presently,  "She  is  not  with  us,"  Roger  passed  back 
word.  "She  is  with  the  litter,  they  say.  And  it  has 
fallen  behind.  But  the  Lieutenant  is  with  it,  so  that  she 
is  safe  there." 

"She  were  better  here,"  Charles  answered  shortly. 
"She  is  not  wanted  there,  I'll  be  sworn!" 

Wanted  or  not,  the  Abbess  had  not  put  herseK  where 
she  was  without  design.  Her  passage  of  arms  with  des 
Ageaux  had  not  tended  to  soften  her  feelings.  She  was 
now  bent  on  his  punishment.  The  end  she  knew;  the 
means  were  to  seek.  But  with  the  confidence  of  a  wo- 
man who  knew^  herself  beautiful,  she  doubted  not  that  she 
would  find  or  create  them.  Bitterly,  bitterly  should  he 
rue  the  day  when  he  had  forced  her  to  take  part  against 
the  man  she  loved.  And  if  she  could  involve  in  his  fall 
this  child,  this  puling  girl  on  whom  the  Captain  of  Vlaye 
had  stooped  an  eye,  not  in  love  or  adoration,  but  solely 
to  escape  the  toils  in  which  they  were  seeking  to  destroy 
him — so  much  the  better!  The  two  were  linked  in- 
separably in  her  mind.  The  guilt  was  theirs,  the 
cunning  was  theirs,  the  bait  was  theirs;    and  M.  de 


194  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

Vlaye's  the  misfortune  only.  So  women  reason  when 
they  love. 

If  she  could  effect  the  ruin  of  these  two,  and  at  the 
same  time  save  the  man  she  adored,  her  triumph  would 
be  complete.  If — but,  alas,  in  that  word  lay  the  diffi- 
culty; nor  as  she  rode  with  a  dark  face  of  offence  had  she 
a  notion  how  to  set  about  her  task.  But  women's  wits 
are  better  than  their  logic.  Men  spoke  in  her  hearing  of 
the  litter  and  of  the  delay  it  caused,  and  in  a  flash  the 
Abbess  saw  the  means  she  lacked,  and  the  man  she  must 
win.     In  the  litter  lay  the  one  and  the  other. 

For  the  motives  that  led  des  Ageaux  to  bear  it  with 
him  at  the  cost  of  trouble,  of  delay,  of  danger,  were  no 
secret  to  a  quick  mind.  The  man  who  lay  in  it  was  the 
key  to  the  situation.  She  came  near  to  divuiing  the  very 
phrase — a  master-card — which  des  Ageaux  had  used  to 
the  Bat  in  the  security  of  the  locked  room.  A  master- 
card he  was;  a  card  that  at  all  costs  must  be  kept  in  the 
Lieutenant's  hands,  and  out  of  Vlaye's  power. 

Therefore,  even  in  this  midnight  flight  they  must 
burden  themselves  with  his  Htter.  A  Duke,  a  Marshal 
of  France,  in  favour  at  Court,  and  lord  of  a  fourth  of 
Languedoc,  he  had  but  to  say  the  word,  and  Vlaye  was 
saved — for  this  time  at  any  rate.  The  Duke  need  but 
idve  some  orders,  speak  to  some  in  power,  call  on  some 
of  those  to  whom  his  will  was  law,  and  his  protege  would 
not  fall  for  lack  of  means.  Up  to  this  point  indeed,  after 
a  fashion  which  the  Abbess  did  not  understand — ^for  the 
man  had  fallen  from  the  clovids — he  was  ranged  against 
her  friend.  But  if  he  could  be  put  into  Vlaye's  hands, 
or  fairly  or  foully  led  to  take  Vlaye's  side,  then  the 
Captain  of  Vlaye  would  be  saved.  And  if  she  could 
effect  this,  would  be  saved  by  her.     By  her  I 


THE  CHAPEL  BY  THE  FORD.  195 

The  sweetness  of  such  a  revenge  only  a  'woman  can 
understand.  Her  lover  had  fancied  the  Rochechouart's 
influence  necessar}''  to  his  safety,  and  to  gain  that  influ- 
ence he  had  been  ready  to  repudiate  his  love.  What  a 
sweet  savour  of  triumph  if  she — she  whom  he  was  ready 
to  abandon — could  save  him  by  this  greater  influence,  an( ; 
in  the  act  show  him  that  a  mightier  than  he  was  at  hci 
feet! 

She  had  heard  stories  of  the  Duke's  character,  which 
promised  well  for  her  schemes.  At  the  time  of  her 
short  sojourn  at  Court,  he  had  but  lately  left  his  cloister, 
drawn  forth  by  the  tragical  death  of  his  brother.  He 
was  then  entering  upon  that  career  of  extravagance, 
eccentricity,  and  vice  which,  along  with  his  reputation 
for  eloquence  and  for  strange  fits  of  repentance,  aston- 
ished even  the  dissolute  circles  of  the  Court.  His  name 
and  his  fame  were  in  all  mouths;  a  man  quick  to  love, 
quick  to  hate,  report  had  it;  a  man  in  whom  remorse 
followed  sharp  on  sin,  and  sin  on  remorse.  A  m.an 
easy  to  win,  she  supposed,  if  a  woman  were  beautiful 
and  knew  how  to  go  about  it. 

Ay,  if  she  knew;  but  there  was  the  difficulty.  For 
he  was  no  common  man,  no  man  of  narrow  experience, 
and  the  ordinary  bait  of  beauty  might  not  by  itself 
avail.  The  Abbess,  high  as  her  opinion  of  her  charm 
stood,  perceived  this.  She  recognised  that  in  the  circle 
in  which  he  had  moved  of  late  beauty  was  plentiful, 
and  she  bent  her  wits  to  the  point.  After  that  she 
might  have  been  riding  in  daylight,  for  all  she  saw  of 
her  surroundings.  She  passed  through  the  ford  and  in 
her  deep  thinking  saw  it  not.  The  long,  dark  hill  on 
her  left,  and  the  low  woods  on  her  right  with  their  strange 
night  noises,  and  their  teeming  evidences  of  that  tragedy 


196  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAIT:. 

of  death  which  fills  the  world,  did  not  exist  for  her. 
The  gleam  of  the  star-lit  river  caught  her  eye,  but 
failed  to  reach  her  brain.  And  if  she  fell  back  slowly 
and  gradually  until  she  found  herself  but  a  few  paces 
before  the  litter  and  its  convoy,  it  was  not  by  design 
only,  but  in  obedience  to  a  subtle  attraction  at  work 
within  her. 

When  her  women  presently  roused  her  by  their  com- 
plaints that  she  was  being  left  behind  with  the  litter, 
she  took  it  for  an  omen,  and  smiled  in  the  darkness. 
They,  on  the  contrary,  were  frightened,  nor  without 
reason.  The  road  they  pursued  followed  the  bank  of 
the  river;  but  the  wide  vale  had  been  left  behind. 
They  had  passed  into  a  valley  more  strait  and  gloomy; 
a  winding  trough,  close  pressed  by  long,  hog-shaped 
hills,  between  which  the  travellers  became  every 
moment  more  deeply  engaged.  The  stars  were  fading 
from  the  sky,  the  darkness  which  comes  before  the 
dawn  was  on  them,  and  with  the  darkness  a  chill. 

This  change  alarmed  the  women.  But  it  did  not 
terrify  them  one  half  as  much  as  the  marked  anxiety 
of  the  litter-party.  More  than  once  des  Ageaux' 
voice  could  be  heard  adjuring  the  bearers  to  move 
faster.  More  than  once  a  rider  passed  between  them 
and  the  main  body,  and  on  each  of  these  occasions  men 
fell  back  and  took  the  places  of  the  old  carriers.  But 
still  the  cry  was  "Faster!     Faster!" 

In  truth  the  day  was  on  the  point  of  breaking,  and 
the  fugitives  were  still  little  more  than  two  leagues 
from  Villeneuve.  At  any  moment  they  might  be 
overtaken,  when  the  danger  of  an  attack  would  be 
great,  since  the  light  must  reveal  the  paucity  of  their 
numbers.     In  this  pinch  even  the  Lieutenant's  stoicism 


THE  CHAPEL  BY  THE  FORD.  197 

failed  him,  and  moment  by  moment  he  trembled  lest 
the  sound  of  galloping  horses  reach  his  ear.  Less  than 
an  hour's  riding  at  speed  would  place  his  charges  in 
safety;  yet  for  the  sake  of  a  wounded  man  he  must 
risk  all.  No  wonder  that  he  cried  again,  "Faster,  men, 
faster!"  and  pressed  the  porters  to  their  utmost 
speed. 

Soon  out  of  the  darkness  ahead  loomed  the  Bat. 
"This  will  never  do,  my  lord,"  he  said,  reining  in  his 
horse  beside  his  leader.  He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  but 
the  Abbess,  a  dozen  paces  ahead,  could  hear  his  words, 
and  even  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  carriers.  "To  go 
on  at  this  pace  is  to  hazard  all." 

"You  must  go  forward  with  the  main  body!"  des 
Ageaux  replied  shortly.  "Let  the  women  who  are  with 
us  ride  on  and  join  the  others,  and  do  you — but,  no, 
that  will  not  do." 

"For  certain  it  will  not  do!"  the  Bat  answered.  "It 
is  I  must  stay,  for  the  fault  is  mine.  But  for  me  you 
would  have  left  him,  my  lord." 

"Do  you  think  we  could  support  him  on  a  horse?" 

"It  would  kill  him!"  the  Bat  rejoined.  "But  it  is 
not  two  hundred  paces  to  the  chapel  by  the  ford  that 
you  remarked  this  morning.  If  we  leave  him  there, 
and  M.  de  Vlaye  finds  him,  he  will  be  as  anxious  to 
keep  life  in  him  as  w^e  are.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  M.  de 
Vlaye  overlooks  him,  we  can  bring  him  in  to-morrow." 

"If  it  must  be,"  des  Ageaux  answered  reluctantly, 
"we  must  leave  him.  But  w^e  cannot  leave  him  with- 
out some  assistance.     Who  will  stay  with  him?" 

''Diable!"  the  Bat  muttered. 

"I  wall  not  leave  him  without  some  one,"  des  Ageaux 
repeated  firmly.     "Some  one  must  stay." 


t98  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

Out  of  the  darkness  came  the  answer,  "I,"  the 
Abbess  said,  "will  stay  with  him!" 

"You,  mademoiselle?"  in  a  tone  of  astonishment. 

"I,"  she  repeated,  "and  my  women.  I,"  she  con- 
tinued haughtily,  "have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  Cap- 
tain of  Vlaye  or  his  men." 

"And  mademoiselle's  robe,"  the  Bat  muttered  with 
ihe  faintest  suspicion  of  irony  in  his  tone,  "protects  her." 

Charles,  who  had  joined  them  with  the  Bat,  thought- 
lessly assented.  "To  be  surel"  he  cried.  "Let  my 
sister  stayl    She  can  stay  without  danger." 

Alone  of  the  three  des  Ageaux  remained  silent — 
pondering.  He  had  seen  enough  of  the  Abbess  to 
suspect  that  it  was  not  humanity  alone  which  dictated 
her  offer.  Probably  she  desired  to  rejoin  her  admirer. 
In  that  case,  did  she  know  enough  of  the  fugitives' 
plans  and  strength  to  render  her  defection  formidable? 

He  thought  not.  At  any  rate  it  seemed  well  to  take 
the  chance.  He  was  taking,  he  was  beginning  to  see  that 
he  was  taking  a  good  many  chances.  "It  seems  a  good 
plan,  if  mademoiselle  be  indeed  wiUing,"  he  said.  He 
wished  that  he  could  see  her  face. 

"I  have  said,"  she  rephed  coldly,  "that  I  am  wilhng. " 

But  her  women  showed  forthwith  that  they  were 
not.  What?  Remain  in  this  wilderness  in  the  dark 
with  a  dying  man?  They  would  be  eaten  by  wolves, 
they  would  be  strangled  by  witches,  they  would  be 
ravished  by  thieves  1  Never!  And  in  a  trice  one  was 
in  hysterics,  deaf  to  her  mistress's  threats  and  to  the 
Bat's  grim  hints.  The  other,  after  a  conflict,  allowed 
herself  to  be  browbeaten,  and  sullenly,  and  with  tears, 
yielded.  But  not  until  the  water  of  the  ford  rippled 
about  their  horses'  hoofs,  and  the  tiny  spark  of  light 


THE  CHAPEL  BY  THE  FORD.  199 

that  through  the  open  door  beaconed  the  shallows  shone 
in  their  eyes. 

Had  it  been  day  they  would  have  had  before  them  a 
scene  at  once  wild  and  peaceful.  On  their  right,  below 
the  ford — which  was  formed  by  the  passage  of  the 
stream  from  one  side  of  the  narrow  valley  to  the  other 
— a  lofty  bluff  overhung  a  black  pool.  Above  the  ford, 
on  the  level  meadow,  and  a  stone's-throw  from  the 
track — if  track  that  could  be  called  which  was  not  used 
by  a  hundred  persons  in  a  year — stood  a  tiny  chapel 
and  cell,  which  some  hermit  in  past  ages  had  built  with 
his  own  hands.  The  approach  of  the  Crocans  had 
driven  his  latest  successor  from  his  post;  but  des 
Ageaux,  passing  that  way  in  the  day,  had  noted  the 
chapel,  and  with  the  forethought  of  the  soldier  who 
expected  to  return  in  the  dark  he  had  seen  the  earthen 
lamp  relit.  Its  light,  he  knew,  would,  in  case  of  need, 
direct  him  to  the  ford. 

At  present  that  lamp,  a  tiny  spark  in  the  blackness, 
was  all  they  saw.  They  made  for  it  through  the  shal- 
lows and  over  a  bed  of  shingle  across  which  the  horses 
clattered  noisily.  In  haste  they  reached  the  door  of 
the  chapel,  and  there  in  a  trice — for  if  the  thing  was 
to  be  done  it  must  be  done  quickly — they  aided  the 
Abbess  and  the  lay  sister  to  alight,  bore  in  the  litter 
with  the  wounded  man,  and  closed  the  door  on  all; 
this  last,  that  the  light  might  no  longer  be  visible  from 
the  ford.  Then  they,  the  men,  got  themselves  to 
horse  again,  and  away  at  a  round  trot. 

Not  without  repugnance  on  the  part  of  several;  not 
without  regret  and  misgiving.  Des  Ageaux's  heart 
smote  him  as  his  horse's  feet  carried  him  farther  and 
farther  away;   it  seemed  so  cowardly  a  thing  to  leave 


200         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAFE. 

women  to  bear  in  that  wild  and  lonely  place  the  bmnt  of 
whatever  might  befall.  And  Charles,  ready  as  he  had 
been  to  acclaim  the  notion,  wondered  if  he  had  erred 
in  leaving  his  sister  thus  lightly.  But  in  truth  they 
were  embarked  in  an  enterprise  whose  full  perils  it 
lay  with  time  to  disclose.  And  other  and  more  press- 
ing anxieties  soon  had  possession  of  their  minds. 

They  had  been  less  troubled  had  they  been  able  to 
witness  the  Abbess's  demeanour  in  her  solitude.  While 
her  companion,  overcome  by  her  fears,  sank  down  in 
a  fit  of  hysterical  weeping,  Odette  de  Villeneuve  re- 
mained standing  within  the  low  doorway,  and  with 
head  erect  listened  frowning  until  the  last  sound  of 
the  horses'  hoofs  died  to  the  ear.  Then  she  drew  a 
deep  breath,  and,  turning  slowly,  she  allowed  her  eyes 
to  take  stock  of  the  place  in  which  she  so  strangely 
found  herself. 

It  was  a  tiny  building  of  rough-hewn  stones,  with 
an  altar  and  crucifix,  also  of  stone,  erected  at  the  end 
remote  from  the  door.  Along  either  wall  ran  a  stone 
bench,  on  one  or  other  of  which  the  good  fathers  must 
have  spent  many  a  summer  day  watching  the  ford; 
for  at  a  certain  point  the  stone  was  polished  and  worn 
by  friction.  The  litter  and  the  wounded  man  filled 
half  the  open  space,  leaving  visible  only  a  floor  of 
trodden  earth  foul  with  the  droppings  of  birds  and  sheep, 
and  betrajdng  in  other  respects  the  results  of  neglect. 
Here  and  there  on  some  stone  larger  than  its  fellows,  and 
particularly  on  the  lintel,  a  prentice  hand  had  carved 
symbols;  but,  this  notwithstanding,  the  whole  wore 
by  the  light  of  the  smoky  lamp  an  aspect  far  from 
sacred. 

Yet  the  prospect  of  spending  several  hours  in  so 


THE  CHAPEL  BY  THE  FORD.  201 

poor  a  place  did  not  appear  to  depress  the  Abbess. 
Her  inspection  finished,  she  nodded  an  answer  to  her 
thoughts,  and  sitting  down  on  the  bench  beside  the 
htter,  rested  her  elbow  on  her  knee  and  her  chin  on 
her  hand,  and  fixing  her  large  dark  eyes  on  the  wounded 
man,  gave  herself  up,  as  completely  as  if  she  had  been 
in  her  own  chamber,  to  her  thoughts. 

Her  woman,  whose  complaining,  half  fractious,  half 
fearful,  had  sunk  to  an  occasional  sob,  presently  looked 
at  her,  and  fascinated  by  that  gloomy  absorption — 
which  might  have  dealt  with  the  mysteries  of  the 
faith,  but  turned  in  fact  on  the  faithlessness  of  man — 
she  could  not  look  away.  And  moments  passed;  the 
first  pale  glimmer  of  dawn  appeared,  and  still  the 
two  women  faced  one  another  across  the  insensible 
man  whose  heavy  breathing,  broken  from  time  to 
time  by  some  obstruction,  was  the  one  sound  that 
vied  with  the  low  murmur  of  the  stream. 

Suddenly  the  Abbess  lifted  her  head.  Mingled  with 
the  water's  chatter  was  a  harsher  sound — a  sound  of 
rattling  stones,  of  jingling  steel  and,  a  second  later,  of 
men's  voices.  She  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  and  as  the 
other  woman,  alarmed  by  the  expression  of  her  features, 
would  have  screamed,  she  silenced  her  by  a  fierce  ges- 
ture. Then  she  stood,  her  hand  resting  against  the 
wall  beside  her,  and  listened. 

She  had  no  doubt  that  it  was  he.  Her  parted  lips 
her  eyes,  half  fierce,  half  tender,  told  as  much.  It  was 
he,  and  she  had  but  to  open  the  door,  she  had  but  to 
show  herself  in  the  lighted  doorway,  and  he  would  come 
to  her!  As  the  voices  of  the  riders  grew,  and  the  rattle 
of  hoofs  among  the  pebbles  ceased,  she  pictured  him 
abreast  of  the  hermitage;  she  fancied,  but  it  must  have 


202  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

been  fancy,  that  she  could  distinguish  his  voice.  Or 
no,  he  would  not  be  speaking.  He  would  be  riding, 
silent,  alone,  his  hand  on  his  hip,  the  grey  light  of  morn- 
ing falling  on  his  stern  face.  And  at  that,  at  that  pic- 
ture of  him,  his  deeds  and  his  career,  his  greatness  who 
had  made  himself,  his  firmness  whom  no  obstacle 
stayed,  rose  before  her  embodied  in  the  sohtary  figure 
riding  foremost  through  the  dawn.  Her  breast  rose  and 
fell  tumultuously.  The  hand  that  rested  on  the  wall 
shook.  She  had  only  to  open  the  door,  she  had  only 
to  cry  his  name  aloud,  only  to  show  herself,  and  he 
would  be  at  her  side!  And  she  would  be  no  longer 
against  him  but  with  him,  no  longer  would  be  ranked 
with  his  foes — ^who  were  so  many — but  for  him  against 
the  world! 

The  temptation  was  so  strong  that  her  form  seemed  to 
droop  and  sway  as  if  a  physical  charm  drew  her  in  the 
direction  of  the  man  she  loved,  the  man  to  whom,  in 
spite  of  his  faults,  or  by  reason  of  them,  she  clung  in  the 
face  of  defection.  But  powerful  as  was  the  spell  laid 
upon  her,  pride — pride  and  her  will  proved  stronger. 
She  stiffened  herself;  for  an  instant  she  did  not  seem  to 
breathe.  Nor  was  it  until  the  last  faint  clink  of  iron 
died  away  that  she  turned  feverish  eyes  in  search  of 
some  crevice,  some  loophole,  some  fissure,  through 
which  she  might  yet  see  him;  yet  see,  if  it  were  but  the 
waving  of  his  plume. 

She  found  none.  The  only  windows,  two  tiny  arrow- 
slits  that  had  never  known  glass,  were  in  the  wall  re- 
mote from  the  track.  On  that  she  set  her  teeth  to  con- 
trol the  moan  of  disappointment  that  rose  from  her 
heart;  and  slowly  she  sank  into  her  old  seat. 

But  not  into  her  old  reverie.    The  eyes  which  she  bent 


THE  CHAPEL  BY  THE  FORD.  203 

on  the  sick  man  were  no  longer  dreamy.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  were  fixed  in  a  gaze  of  eager  scrutiny  that 
sought  to  drag  from  the  Duke's  palHd  features  the  secret 
of  his  weakness  and  waywardness,  of  his  strange  nature 
and  bizarre  fame.  And  unconsciously  as  she  gazed, 
she  bent  nearer  and  nearer  to  him;  her  look  grew 
sharper  and  more  imperious.  All  hung  on  him  now — 
all!  Her  mind  was  made  up.  Fortune  had  not  cast 
him  so  timely  in  her  path,  fate  had  not  afforded  her 
the  opportunity  of  which  she  had  dreamed,  without 
intending  her  to  profit  by  it,  without  proposing  to 
crown  the  scheme  with  success.  The  spell  of  her  lover's 
presence,  the  spell  that  had  obsessed  her  so  short  a 
time  before  that  the  interval  could  be  reckoned  by  sec- 
onds, was  broken!  Never  should  it  be  hers  to  play 
that  creeping  part,  to  regain  him  that  way,  to  return  to 
him  tamely,  empty-handed,  a  suppliant  for  his  love! 
No,  not  Vv^hile  it  might  be  hers  to  return  a  conqueror,  an 
equal,  with  a  greater  than  the  Captain  of  Vlaye  in  her 
toils! 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  tasting  triumph  in  advance, 
she  smiled.  With  a  firm  hand,  disregarding  her  wom- 
an's remonstrance,  she  extinguished  the  lamp.  The 
pale  light  of  early  morning  stole  in  through  the  narrow 
slits,  and  then  for  a  brief  instant  the  Abbess  held  her 
breath ;  for  the  light  falling  on  the  Duke's  face  so  sharp- 
ened his  thin  temples  and  nerv^ous  features,  showed 
him  so  livid  and  wan  and  death-like,  that  she  thought 
him  gone.  He  was  not  gone,  but  she  acted  upon  the 
hint.  If  he  died,  where  were  her  schemes  and  the 
clever  combinations  she  had  been  forming?  Quickly 
she  drew  from  the  litter  a  flagon  of  broth  tliat  had  been 
mixed  with  a  cunning  cordial;  and  first  moistening  his 


204  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

lips  with  the  liquor,  by-and-by  she  contrived  to  make 
him  swallow  some.  In  the  act  he  opened  his  eyes,  and 
they  were  clear  and  sensible;  but  it  was  only  to  close 
them  again  with  a  sigh,  half  of  satisfaction,  half  of 
weakness.  Nevertheless,  from  this  time  his  state  was 
rather  one  of  sleep,  the  sleep  craved  by  exhausted 
nature,  than  of  insensibility  or  fever,  and  with  every 
hour  the  forces  of  his  youth  and  constitution  wrought 
at  the  task  of  restoration. 

Odette,  brooding  over  him,  watched  with  satisfaction 
the  return  of  a  more  healthy  colour  to  his  cheeks. 
Time  passed,  and  presently,  while  the  light  was  still 
cold  and  young,  there  came  an  interruption.  A  mur- 
mur of  voices,  and  the  jingle  of  spur  and  bit,  warned 
her  that  M.  de  Vlaye,  baffled  in  his  attempt  to  cut  off 
the  fugitives  before  they  found  refuge,  was  returning 
through  the  valley.  This  time,  how  different  were  her 
sensations.  She  started  to  her  feet  and  listened,  and 
her  face  grew  hard,  but  under  pressure  of  suspense,  not 
of  desire.  Suspense — ^for  if  they  turned  aside,  if  they 
entered  the  deserted  chapel  and  discovered  her,  her 
plan — and  her  very  soul  was  now  set  on  its  success — 
perished  still-born. 

It  was  a  trying  moment,  but  it  passed.  Probably 
Vlaye  knew  the  chapel  of  old,  and  knew  that  the  good 
father  had  fled  from  it.  At  any  rate  he  passed  by  it, 
and  rode  on  his  way.  She  heard  the  trampling  of  the 
horses  'break  the  singing  of  the  ford;  and  then  she 
heard  only  the  murmur  of  the  water  and  the  morning 
hymn  of  a  lark  that,  startled  by  the  passage  of  the 
riders,  soared  above  the  glen,  and  with  the  sunshine  on 
its  throbbmg  breast,  hailed  the  warm  rising  of  anothei 
day. 


THE  CHAPEL  BY  THE  FORD.  205 

Whether  the  lark's  song  appealed  to  the  softer  strain 
in  her,  or  she  began  to  hate  the  sordid  interior  with  its 
grey  half-light,  the  moment  she  was  sure  that  the  riders 
had  gone  on  their  way  she  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 
The  sun  was  peeping  into  the  valley  and  all  nature  was 
astir.  The  laughing  waters  of  the  ford,  the  steep  bluff, 
darksome  by  night,  now  clad  in  waving  tree-tops,  the 
floor  of  meadow  emerald-green,  all  reflected  the  bright- 
ness of  a  sky  in  which  not  one  but  half  a  dozen  songsters 
trilled  forth  the  joy  of  life.  After  the  gloom,  the  vigil, 
the  danger  of  the  night,  the  scene  appealed  to  her 
strongly;  and  for  a  brief  time,  while  she  stood  gazing 
on  the  vale  unmarred  by  human  works  or  human  pres- 
ence, she  felt  a  compunction ;  such  a  feeling  as  m  a  simi- 
lar scene  invades  the  breast  of  the  veteran  hunter,  and 
whispers  to  liim  that  to  carry  death  into  the  haunts  of 
nature  is  but  a  sorry  task. 

A  feeling  as  quickly  suppressed  in  the  one  case  as  in  the 
other.  A  few  minutes  later  the  Abbess  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  and  beckoned  to  the  woman  to  join  her  outside. 

"Give  me  your  hood  and  veil,"  she  said  in  a  tone  that 
forestalled  demur.  "And  I  need  your  outer  robe  I 
Don't  stare,  woman  1"  she  continued  fiercely.  "Is  there 
an}^  one  to  see  you?  Can  the  hills  hurt  you?  Obey. 
It  is  my  pleasure  to  wear  the  dress  of  the  order,  and  I 
have  it  not  with  me ! " 

"But,  madam " 

"Obey,  woman,  and  take  my  cloak!"  the  Abbess 
retorted.  "Wrap  yourself  in  that!"  And  when  the 
change  was  made,  and  she  had  assumed  over  her  dress 
the  loose  black  and  white  robe  of  the  order,  "  Now  wait 
for  me  here,"  she  said.  "And  if  he  call,  as  is  possible, 
do  not  go  to  him,  but  fetch  me!" 


206  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

S"he  departed  towards  the  pool  below  the  ford,  and, 
disappearing  behmd  a  clump  of  low  v/illows,  made,  using 
the  still  water  for  a  mirror,  some  further  changes  in  her 
toilet. 

Not  fruitlessly,  for  when  she  returned  to  the  door  of 
the  chapel,  the  woman  who  awaited  her  stared,  thinking 
that  she  had  never  seen  her  mistress  show  fairer  in  her 
silks  than  in  this  black  and  white,  which  she  so  seldom 
favoured.  And  soon  there  was  another  who  thought — 
if  not  that  thought,  a  similar  one.  The  Duke,  opening 
on  the  glory  of  sunshine  and  summer  warmth,  the  eyes 
that  had  so  nearly  closed  for  good,  saw  at  the  foot  of  his 
litter  a  wondrous  figure  kneeling  before  the  altar. 

The  face  of  the  figure  was  turned  from  him,  and  for  a 
time,  between  sleeping  and  waking,  he  considered  her 
idly,  supposing  her  now  an  angel  interceding  for  him  ir. 
the  other  life  on  which  he  had  entered,  now  a  nun  pray- 
ing beside  his  bier;  for  he  took  it  for  certain  he  was 
dead.  By-and-by  he  passed  over  to  the  theory  of  the 
angel,  for  the  figure  moved,  and  the  sunlight  passing  in 
through  a  tiny  wmdow-slit  formed  a  nimbus  about  her 
head.  And  then  again,  moving  afresh,  as  in  an  ecstacy 
of  devotion,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  crucifix,  and  the 
hood  falling  back  with  the  movement  revealed  a  profile 
of  a  beauty  and  purity  almost  unearthly. 

The  Duke  sighed.  He  had  sighed  before,  but  ap- 
parently, for  the  sigh  had  not  changed  her  rapt  expres- 
sion, she  had  not  heard.  Now  she  did  hear.  She  rose, 
and  with  a  deep  genuflection  turned  from  the  altar,  and 
glided  with  downcast  eyes  to  his  side.  Eyes  softened 
to  the  meekness  of  a  dove's  looked  into  his,  and  found 
that  he  was  awake.  Then,  angel  or  saint,  or  whatever 
she  was,  she  made  a  sign  to  him  not  to  speak;  and  pro- 


THE  CHAPEL  BY  THE  FORD,  207 

ducing,  by  magic  as  it  seemed,  ambrosial  food,  she  fed 
him,  and  with  a  finger  on  his  hp  bade  him  in  gentle 
accents,  "Sleep!" 

Sleep?  To  think  he  could  sleep  when  an  angel — and 
while  he  laughed  in  ridicule  of  the  notion  he  slept,  that 
heavenly  face  framed  in  its  nun's  hood,  that  drooping 
form  with  the  hands  crossed  upon  the  breast  moving 
before  him  into  the  land  of  visions.  He  was  back  again 
in  those  earliest  days  of  his  cloistered  existence,  when  to 
live  in  an  atmosphere,  pure  and  apart,  innocent  of  the 
passions  and  desires  of  the  world,  had  been  his  dream. 
He  had  learned — only  too  soon — that  that  atmosphere 
and  that  innocence  were  not  to  be  maintained,  though 
the  walls  of  a  monastery  be  ten  feet  through.  For  the 
nature  which  the  thought  of  such  a  life  had  charmed  was 
of.  all  natures  the  one  most  open  to  worldly  fascinations. 
He  had  fallen ;  and  he  had  presently  replaced  the  vision 
of  being  good  by  the  enthusiasm  of  doing  good.  He 
had  lifted  his  voice,  and  the  preaching  of  Pere  Ange 
had  moved  half  Paris  to  a  twenty-four  hours'  repent- 
ance.   His  own  had  lasted  a  little  longer. 

Now,  weak  and  unnerved,  he  reverted  at  sight  of  this 
beautiful  nun's  face  to  his  old  visions  of  a  saintly  life; 
and  in  innocent  adoration  he  dreamt  of  naught  but  her 
countenance.  When  he  awoke  again  and  found  her  still 
at  her  devotions,  though  the  sun  was  high,  still  at  his 
service  when  she  found  him  waking,  still  moving  dove- 
like and  silent  about  her  ministrations — ^he  watched  her 
everywhere.  Several  times  he  wished  to  speak,  but 
she  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips,  and  covering  her  hands 
with  her  sleeves,  sat  on  the  bench  beside  him,  reading 
her  book  of  hours.  And  so  during  the  hazy  period  of 
his  return  to  consciousness  he  saw  her.     Awake  or  drows- 


208  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

ing,  stung  to  life  by  the  smart  of  his  hurt  or  lulled  to 
sleep  by  the  music  of  the  stream,  he  had  her  face  always 
before  him. 

At  length  there  came  a  time,  a  little  before  high  noon, 
when  he  awoke  with  a  clearer  eye  and  a  mind  capable  of 
feeling  surprise  at  his  position.  He  saw  her  sitting 
beside  him,  but  he  saw  also  the  rough  grey  walls,  the 
altar,  the  crucifix;  and  to  wonder  succeeded  curiosity. 
What  had  happened,  and  how  came  he  there?  His  eyes 
sought  her  face  and  remained  riveted  to  it. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  whispered. 

She  marked  that  his  eyes  were  clear  and  his  strength 
greater,  and,  "You  are  in  the  chapel  in  the  upper  valley 
of  the  Dronne,"  she  answered. 

"But    I "    He    stopped    and    closed    his    eyes, 

brought  up  by  some  confusion  in  his  thoughts.  At 
last,  "I  fancied  I  fought  with  some  one,"  he  whispered. 
"It  was  in  a  courtyard — at  night?  And  there  were 
lights?  It  was  one  of  Vlaye's  men,  and  the  place 
was "  He  broke  off  in  the  painful  effort  to  remem- 
ber.    His  lips  moved  without  sound. 

"Villeneuve,"  she  said. 

"Villeneuve,"  he  whispered  gratefully.  "But  this 
is  not  A^illeneuve?" 

"We  are  two  leagues  from  Villeneuve." 

"How  come  I  here?" 

She  told  him,  preserving  the  gentle  placidity  which, 
not  without  thought,  she  had  adopted  for  her  role.  The 
repulse  of  Vlaye's  men  and  the  Lieutenant's  decision  to 
quit  the  chateau,  that  and  the  night  retreat  up  to  the 
arrival  of  the  party  at  the  ford — all  were  told.  Then 
she  broke  off. 

"But  des  Ageaux?"  he  murmured.     "Where  is  he?" 


THE  CHAPEL  BY  THE  FORD.  209 

And  again,  that  he  might  look  round  him,  he  tried  to 
rise.  "Where  are  they  all?"  he  continued  in  wonder. 
"They  have  not  left  me?"  with  a  querulous  note  m  liis 
voice. 

"They  are  not  here,"  she  answered.  And  gently  she 
induced  him  to  lie  back  again.  "Be  still,  I  pray,"  she 
said.     "Be  still.     You  do  yourself  no  good  by  moving." 

He  sighed.     "Where  are  they?"  he  persisted. 

"We  were  hard  pressed  at  the  ford,"  she  answered 
with  feigned  reluctance.  "And  your  litter  delayed 
them.  It  was  necessary  to  leave  you  or  all  had  been 
lost." 

He  lay  in  silence  awhile  with  closed  eyes,  considering 
what  she  had  told  him.  At  last,  "And  j^ou  stayed?" 
he  murmured  in  so  low  a  voice  that  the  words  were 
barely  audible.     "You  stayed!" 

"It  was  necessary,"  she  answered. 

"And  you  have  been  beside  me  all  night?" 

She  bowed  her  head. 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  his  Hps  trembled,  for 
he  was  very  weak.  He  groped  for  her  hand,  and 
would  have  carried  it  to  his  lips,  but  as  men  kiss  relics 
or  the  hands  of  saints — if  she  had  not  withheld  it  from 
him.  Settling  the  thin  coverings  more  comfortably 
round  him,  she  gave  him  to  drink  again,  softly  chiding 
him  and  bidding  him  be  silent — be  silent  and  sleep. 

But,  "You  have  been  beside  me  all  night!"  he  re- 
peated. "All  night,  alone  here,  and  a  woman!  A 
woman!" 

She  did  not  tell  him  that  she  was  not  alone ;  that  her 
woman  was  even  then  sitting  outside,  under  strict  orders 
not  to  show  herself.  For  now  she  was  assured  that 
she  was  in  the  right  path.    She  had  had  opportunities 


210  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

of  studying  his  countenance  while  he  slept,  and  she  had 
traced  in  it  those  qualities  of  enthusiasm  and  weakness, 
of  the  libertine  and  the  ascetic,  which  his  career  so 
remarkably  displayed.  The  beauty  which  in  ordinary 
circumstances  his  jaded  eye,  versed  in  woman's  wiles, 
might  neglect,  would  appeal  with  irresistible  force  in  a 
garb  of  saintliness.  Nay,  more;  as  he  recovered  his 
strength  and  returned  to  his  common  feelings,  it  would 
prove,  she  felt  sure,  more  provocative  than  the  most 
worldly  lures.  Her  resolve  to  carry  the  matter  through 
was  now  fixed  and  immutable :  and  with  her  eye  on  the 
goal,  she  neglected  no  precaution  that  occurred  to  her 
mind. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE    PEASANTS     CAMP. 


Something  after  high  noon  des  Ageaux  appeared  and, 
whatever  the  Abbess's  feelings,  he  was  overjoyed  to 
find  the  three  undisturbed.  He  despatched  a  flying 
party  down  the  valley  that  he  might  have  notice  if 
the  enemy  approached,  and  then  he  bent  himseK  to 
remove  the  Duke  in  safety  to  his  camp.  In  this  the 
Abbess  had  her  own  Hne  to  take,  and  took  it  with 
decision.  She  represented  the  patient  as  worse  than 
he  was,  described  the  fever  as  still  lingering  upon  him, 
and  using  the  authority  which  her  devotion  of  the  night 
gave  her,  she  insisted  that  the  Duke  should  see  no  one. 
A  kind  of  shelter  from  the  sun  was  woven  of  boughs, 
and  placed  over  the  litter.  He  was  then  lifted  and 
borne  out  with  care,  the  Abbess  walking  on  one  side, 
and  her  woman  on  the  other.  In  the  open  air  des 
Ageaux  would  have  approached  and  spoken  to  him, 
for  between  gratitude  and  remorse  the  Lieutenant  was 
much  touched.  But  the  authority  of  the  sick-nurse 
was  great  then  as  it  is  now.  The  Abbess  repelled  him 
firmly,  and,  refusing  the  horse  which  had  been  brought 
for  her,  she  persisted  in  walking  the  whole  distance 
to  the  camp — a  full  league — ^by  the  side  of  the  litter.  In 
this  way  she  fenced  others  off,  and  the  Duke  had  her 

211 


212         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

always  before  him.  Always  the  opening  at  the  side  of 
the  litter  framed  her  face. 

She  gave  her  mind  so  completely  to  him  that  she 
took  no  note  of  their  route,  save  that  they  kept  the 
valley,  which  preserving  its  flat  bottom  now  ran  between 
hills  of  a  wilder  aspect.  It  was  only  when  the  troopers, 
at  a  word  from  the  Lieutenant,  closed  in  about  the 
htter,  that  she  observed— though  it  had  been  some 
time  in  sight — the  object  which  caused  the  movement. 
This  was  a  small  hill-town,  girt  by  a  ruinous  wall,  and 
buckled  with  crazy  towers,  which  topped  an  acclivity 
on  the  right  of  the  valley,  and  commanded  the  road. 
The  suspicion  with  which  her  escort  regarded  the 
place  did  not  surprise  her  when  she  remarked  the 
filthy  forms  and  wild  and  savage  faces  which  swarmed 
upon  the  wall.  There  were  women  and  children  as 
well  as  men  in  the  place,  and  all,  ragged  and  hah  naked, 
mopped  and  mowed  at  the  passers,  or,  leaping  to  their 
feet,  defied  them  with  unspeakable  words  and  gestures. 

The  Abbess  looked  at  them  wdth  daunted  eyes.  There 
was  something  inhuman  in  their  squalor  and  wiidness. 
"Who  are  they?"  she  asked. 

"Crocans,"  the  nearest  rider  answered. 

"But  we  are  not  going  to  them?"  she  returned  in 
astonishment.  She  had  .heard  that  they  were  bound 
for  the  peasants'  camp,  and  her  lip  had  curled  at  the 
information.     But  if  these  were  Crocans — horror  1 

The  man  spat  on  the  ground.  "That  is  one  band, 
and  ours  is  another,"  he  replied.  "All  canaille,  but — 
not  all  hke  that,  or  we  had  some  strange  bed-fellows 
indeed  1" 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  he  caught  the  Lieu- 
tenant's eye,  and  was  silent  and  five  minutes  later  the 


THE  PEASANTS'  CAMP.  213 

Abbess  saw  a  strange  sight.  The  riders  before  her 
wheeled  to  the  left,  and,  bending  low  in  their  saddles, 
vanished  bodily  in  the  rock  that  walled  the  road  on  that 
side. 

A  moment  later  she  probed  the  mystery.  In  the 
rock  wall  which  fenced  the  track  on  the  left,  as  the  river 
fenced  it  on  the  right,  was  an  arched  opening,  resem- 
bling the  mouth  of  a  cave — of  one  of  those  caves  so 
common  in  the  Limousin,  Within  was  no  cave,  how- 
ever, but  a  spacious  circus  of  smooth  green  turf  open  to 
the  heaven,  though  walled  on  every  side  by  grassy 
slopes  which  ran  steeply  to  a  height  of  a  hundred  feet. 
There  was  no  entrance  to  the  basin,  but  neither  its 
defensible  strength,  nor  the  wisdom  of  the  Crocans  in 
choosing  it,  was  apparent  until  the  green  rampart  cast 
about  it  by  nature  was  examined  and  found  to  be  so 
scarped  on  the  outer  side  as  to  form  here  a  sheer 
precipice,  there  a  descent  trying  to  the  most  active 
foot. 

A  spring  near  the  inner  margin  of  this  natural  amphL 
theatre  fed  a  rivulet  which,  after  passing  across  it,  and 
dividing  it  into  two  unequal  parts,  escaped  to  the  river 
through  the  rocky  gateway. 

The  smaller  portion  of  the  sward  thus  divided,  a 
portion  raised  very  slightly  above  the  rest,  had  some- 
thing of  the  aspect  of  a  stage  on  a  great  scale.  About 
its  middle  a  flat-topped  rock  rismg  to  a  man's  height 
from  the  ground  had  the  air  of  an  altar,  and  this  was 
shaded  by  the  only  tree  in  the  enclosure,  a  single  plane- 
tree  of  vast  size,  which  darkened  with  its  ancient 
smooth-barked  hmbs  a  half-acre  of  ground.  Probably 
this  rock  and  this  tree  had  witnessed  the  meetings  of 
some  primitive  people,  had  borne  part  in  their  human 


214  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

sacrifices,  and  echoed  the  cries  with  which  they  ac- 
claimed the  moment  of  the  summer  solstice. 

To-day  this  basin,  long  abandoned  to  the  solitude  of 
the  hills,  presented  once  more  a  scene  of  turmoil,  such 
as  for  strangeness  might  rival  the  gatherings  of  that 
remote  age.  Nor,  save  for  a  circumstance  presently  to 
be  named,  could  even  the  Abbess's  sullen  curiosity  have 
withheld  a  meed  of  admiration  as  the  panorama  un- 
folded itself  before  her. 

Round  the  edge  of  the  larger  half  of  the  amphitheatre 
ran  a  long  line — in  parts  double  and  treble,  of  booths 
open  at  the  front,  and  formed,  some  of  branches  of 
trees,  some  of  plaited  rushes  or  osier.  Under  these, 
swarms  of  men,  women,  and  children  lounged  in  eveiy 
posture,  while  others  strolled  about  the  ground  before 
the  sheds,  which,  crowded  with  sheep,  oxen  and  horses, 
wore  the  aspect  of  a  rustic  fair.  The  turf  that  had 
been  so  fair  a  fortnight  before  was  trodden  bare  in 
places,  and  in  others  poached  and  stained  by  the  crowds 
that  moved  on  it.  Only  the  immediate  bank  of  the 
rivulet  had  been  kept  clear. 

The  smaller  portion  of  the  sward  had  been  given  up 
to  des  Ageaux  and  his  band  of  troopers  and  refugees. 
A  dozen  horses  tethered  in  an  orderly  row  at  the  rear  of 
the  plane-tree,  with  a  pile  of  gear  at  the  head  of  each, 
spoke  of  mihtary  order,  as  did  the  three  or  four  booths 
which  had  been  erected  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
Vicomte's  party.  But  as  in  such  a  place  and  under 
such  circumstances  it  was  impossible  to  em"orce  strict 
discipline,  the  curious  among  the  peasants,  and  not 
men  only,  but  women  and  children,  roved  in  small 
parties  on  this  side  also,  staring  and  questioning;  some 
with  furtive  eyes  as  expecting  a  trap  and  treachery, 


THE  PEASANTS'  CAMP.  215 

others  watching  in  clownish  amazement  the  evolutions 
of  a  picked  band  of  three  score  peasants  whom  the  Bat 
was  beginning  to  instruct  in  the  use  of  their  weapons 
and  in  the  simplest  movements  of  the  field.  Here  and 
there  on  the  steep  slopes  about  the  saucer  were  groups 
of  peasants ;  and  on  the  top  of  the  ridge,  which  was  for- 
bidden to  the  crowd,  were  five  sentinels,  stationed  be- 
side as  many  cairns  of  stones  piled  for  the  purpose  at 
fixed  distances  from  one  another.  These  were  of  the 
Lieutenant's  institution,  for  though  the  safety  of  the 
camp  hung  wholly  on  the  command  of  its  natural  bat- 
''3ment,  which  captured  would  convert  the  basin  into  a 
death-trap,  the  Crocans  had  kept  no  regular  guard  on 
it.  He  on  his  arrival  had  entrusted  its  oversight  to 
the  two  young  Villeneuves,  and  one  or  the  other  was 
ever  patrolling  the  length  of  the  vallum,  or  from  the 
highest  point  searching  the  chaos  of  uninhabited  hills 
and  glens  that  stretched  on  every  side. 

This  hasty  sketch  of  the  scene  leaves  to  be  fancied 
those  worst  traits  of  the  camp,  of  its  wildness  and 
savagery,  that  could  not  fail  to  disquiet  the  mind  even 
of  a  bold  woman.  Many  of  the  peasants  were  haK 
naked,  others  were  clad  in  cow-skins,  in  motley  armour, 
in  sordid,  blood-stained  finery.  All  went  unshaven, 
and  many  had  long,  filthy  elf-locks  hanging  about  their 
faces,  and  ragged  beards  reaching  to  their  girdles. 
Some  had  squalid  bandages  on  head  or  Umb,  and  all 
were  armed  grotesquely  with  bill-hooks  or  scythes,  or 
with  stakes  pointed  and  hardened  m  the  fire,  or  with 
knotty  clubs.  IVI.  de  Vlaye  and  his  kind  would  have 
seen  in  them  only  a  horde  to  be  exterminated  without 
pity  or  remorse.  Nor  could  their  looks  have  failed  to 
startle  the  Abbess,  high  as  was  her  natural  courage — 


216         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

if  a  thing  had  not  at  the  very  entrance  engaged  her 
attention. 

For  there,  under  the  archway,  a  group  of  six  men 
sat  on  their  hams,  their  backs  against  the  rock.  And 
these  were  so  foul  in  garb,  and  repulsive  in  aspect,  that 
the  common  peasants  of  the  camp  seemed  by  com- 
parison civilised.  The  Abbess  shuddered  at  the  mere 
look  of  them,  and  would  have  averted  her  eyes  if  they 
had  not,  as  des  A.geaux  entered,  risen  and  barred  the 
way.  The  foremost,  a  tall,  meagre  figure  with  a  long 
white  beard,  and  the  gleam  of  madness  in  his  eyes, 
seized  the  Lieutenant's  bridle  and  raising  his  other  hand 
seemed  to  forbid  his  entrance.  "Give  us,"  he  cried 
in  a  strange  patois,  "our  man!    Our  manl" 

Tlie  Abbess  expected  des  Ageaux  to  strike  him  from 
his  path,  or  bid  his  men  ride  him  do\\Ti.  But  the 
Lieutenant  considered  with  patience  the  strange  figure 
clad  much  as  John  the  Baptist  is  protrayed  in  pictures, 
and  when  he  answered  he  spoke  calmly.  "You  are 
from  the  town  on  the  hill?"  he  said. 

"Ay,  and  we  claim  our  man!" 

"The  man,  you  mean,  whom  we  took  from  your 
hands  last  night?" 

"Ay,  that  man!" 

"For  what?" 

"That  we  may  bum  him,"  the  savage  answered,  his 
face  lit  up  by  a  gleam  of  frightful  cruelty.  "That  we 
may  do  to  him  as  he  has  done  to  us  and  our  little  ones. 
That  we  may  burn  him  as  he  and  his  have  burned  us, 
from  father  to  son,  father  to  son,  by  the  light  of  our 
own  thatch.  They  have  smoked  us  in  our  holes,"  he 
continued  with  ferocity,  "as  they  smoke  foxes;  and 
we  will  smoke  him.     He  has  done  to  us  that!    And 


THE  PEASANTS'  CMIP.  217 

that!"  He  turned,  and  at  a  sign  two  of  his  five  fel- 
lows stepped  forward  and  held  aloft  the  maimed  and 
ghastly  stumps  of  their  arms.  "And  that!  And  that!" 
Again  two  stepped  forward  and  pointed  to  their  eye- 
less sockets.  ''And  what  he  has  done  to  us  we  will  do 
to  him!" 

The  Abbess  turned  sick  at  the  sight.  But  des  Ageaiix 
answered  with  quietness.  ''Yet  what  has  he  done  to 
you,  old  man,"  he  asked,  "that  you  stand  foremost?" 

"He  has  blinded  me  there!"  the  madman  answered, 
and  vnth.  a  strangely  dramatic  gesture  pointed  to  his 
brow.  "I  am  dark  at  times,  and  boys  mock  me! 
But  to-day  I  am  whole  and  well!" 

"I  will  not  give  him  up  to  you!"  the  Lieutenant 
rephed  with  calm  decision.  "But  if  he  has  done  the 
things  of  which  you  tell  me,  I  will  judge  him  myseh  and 
punish  him.  Nay" — staying  them  sternly  as  they  be- 
gan to  cr^'  out  upon  him,  "listen  to  me  now!  I  have 
listened  to  you.  For  all  who  come  in  to  me,  and  cease 
from  pillage,  and  burning,  and  murder,  I  give  my  war- 
rant that  the  past  shall  be  overlooked.  They  shall  be 
free  to  go  back  to  their  villages,  or  if  they  dare  not  go 
back  they  shall  be  settled  elsewhere,  with  pardon  for  life 
and  limb.  But  for  those  who  do  not  come  in,  the 
burden  of  all  will  fall  upon  them!  The  law  will  pass 
upon  them  without  mercy,  and  their  gibbets  will  be  on 
every  road!" 

"Not  so!"  the  other  cried,  raising  himself  to  his  full 
height  and  flinging  his  lean  arms  to  heaven.  "Not  so, 
lord,  for  the  time  is  full!  Hear  me,  too,  man  of  blood. 
We  know  you.  You  speak  softly  because  the  time  is 
full,  and  you  would  fain  cast  in  your  lot  with  us  and 
escape.     But  you  are  of  those  who  ride  in  blood,  and 


218  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

who  trust  in  the  strength  of  your  armour,  and  who  eat 
of  the  fat  and  drink  of  the  strong,  while  the  poor  man 
perishes  under  the  feet  of  your  horses,  while  the  earth 
groans  under  the  load  of  your  wickedness,  and  God 
is  mocked.  But  the  time  is  full,  and  there  comes  an 
end  of  your  gyves  and  your  gibbets,  your  wheels  and 
your  molten  lead!  The  fire  is  kindled  that  shall  bum 
you.  Is  there  one  of  you  for  ten  of  us?  Can  your 
horses  bear  you  through  the  sea  when  the  fire  fills  all 
the  land?  Nay,  three  months  have  we  burned  all 
ways,  and  no  man  has  been  able  to  withstand  our  fire ! 
For  it  grows!     It  grows!" 

The  fierce  murmurings  of  the  madman's  fellows 
almost  drowned  des  Ageaux'  voice  when  he  went  to 
answer.  ''Your  blood  be  on  your  own  heads!"  he 
said  solemnly.  "I  have  spoken  you  fairly,  I  have 
given  you  the  choice  of  good  and  of  evil." 

"Nought  but  evil,"  the  other  cried,  "can  proceed 
out  of  your  mouth!    Now  give  us  our  man!" 

"Never!" 

"Then  will  we  bum  you  for  him,"  the  madman 
shrieked,  in  sudden  frenzy,  "when  you  fall  into  our 
hands.  You  and  these — women  with  breasts  of  flint 
and  hearts  of  the  rock-core,  who  bathe  in  the  blood  of 
our  infants,  and  make  a  hohday  of  our  torments!  Be- 
ware, for  when  next  we  meet,  you  die!" 

"Be  it  so!"  des  Ageaux  replied,  sternly  restraining 
his  men,  who  would  have  fallen  on  the  hideous  group. 
"But  begone!" 

They  turned  away,  mopping  and  mowing — one  was  a 
leper — and  lifting  hands  of  imprecation.  And  the  Ab- 
bess, while  the  litter  was  being  lifted,  was  left  for  a 
moment  with  des  Ageaux,     She  hated  him,  but  she  did 


THE  PEASANTS'  CAMP.  219 

not  understand  him;  and  it  was  the  desire  to  understand 
him  that  led  her  to  speak. 

"Why  did  you  not  seize  the  wretches,"  she  asked, 
"and  punish  them?" 

"Their  turn  will  come,"  he  replied  coldly.  "I  would 
have  saved  them  if  I  could." 

"Saved  them?"  she  exclaimed.     "Why?" 

"Who  knows  what  they  have  suffered  to  bring  them 
to  this?" 

She  laughed  in  scorn  of  his  weakness — who  fancied 
himself  a  match  for  the  Captain  of  Vlaye!  His  cold 
words,  his  even  manner,  had  somewhat  deceived  her. 
But  now  she  saw  that  he  was  a  fool,  a  fool.  She  saw 
that  if  she  detached  Joyeuse  there  was  nothing  in  this 
man  M.  de  Vlaye  need  fear. 

She  left  him  then.  She  had  had  no  sleep  the  previous 
night,  and  loth  as  she  was  to  lose  sight  of  the  Duke  or  to 
give  another  the  chance  of  supplantmg  her,  she  knew 
that  she  must  rest.  So  weary  was  she  after  she  had 
eaten  that  the  rough  couch  in  the  hut  set  apart  for  her 
— her  women  after  the  mode  of  the  day  slept  across  the 
door  or  where  they  could — might  have  been  a  chamber 
in  the  heart  of  some  guarded  palace  instead  of  a  nook 
sheltered  from  curious  eyes  only  by  a  wall  of  boughs. 
She  had  that  healthiness  which  makes  nerves  and  even 
conscience  superfluous,  and  coidd  not  anywhere  have 
slept  better  or  been  less  aware  of  the  wild  life  about  her. 
The  slow  tramp  of  armed  men,  the  voices  of  the  watch 
upon  the  earth-wall,  that  to  waking  ears  told  of  danger 
and  suspicion — these  were  no  more  to  her  in  her  fatigue 
than  the  silent  march  of  the  summer  stars  across  the  sky. 

When  she  awoke  on  the  following  morning,  refreshed 
and  full  of  energy,  the  sun  was  an  hour  high,  and  the 


220         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

peasants'  camp  was  astir.  In  one  place  the  Bat  was 
drilling  his  three  score  men  as  if  he  had  never  ceased;  in 
another  food  was  being  apportioned,  and  forage  assigned. 
Neither  des  Ageaux  nor  her  brothers  were  visible,  but 
hard  by  her  door  the  Vicomte,  attended  by  Bonne  and 
Solomon,  sat  with  a  hand  on  either  knee,  and  gazed 
piteously  on  the  abnormal  scene. 

The  uppermost  feeling  in  the  old  man's  mind  was  a 
querulous  wonder;  first  that  he  had  allowed  himself  to 
be  dragged  from  his  house,  secondly  that,  even  since 
Coutras,'_things  were  suffered  to  come  to  this  pass.  How 
things  had  come  to  this,  why  his  life  and  home  had  been 
broken  up,  why  he  had  had  no  voice  in  the  matter,  and 
why  his  sons,  even  crooked-back  Roger,  went,  and  came, 
and  ordered,  without  so  much  as  a  by  your  leave  or  an  if 
you  please — these  were  points  that  by  turns  puzzled  and 
enraged  him,  and  in  the  consideration  of  which  he  found 
no  comfort  so  great  as  that  which  Solomon  assiduously 
administered. 

"Ah!"  the  old  servant  remarked  more  than  once,  as 
he  surveyed  with  a  jaundiced  eye  the  crowded  camp 
beyond  the  rivulet,  "they  are  full  of  themselves!  But 
I  mind  the  day — it  was  when  you  entertained  the 
Governors,  my  lord — when  they'd  have  looked  a  few 
beside  the  servants  we  had  to  supper  in  the  courtyard! 
A  few  they'd  look.  I'd  sixty-two  men,  all  men  of  their 
hands,  and  not  naked  gipsies  like  these,  to  my  own  table !" 

Which  was  true;  but  Solomon  forgot  to  add  that  it 
was  the  only  table. 

"Ay!"  the  Vicomte  said,  pleased,  though  he  knew 
that  Solomon  was  Ijdng.     "Times  are  changed." 

"  Since  Coutras — devil  take  them ! "  Solomon  rejoined, 
wagging  his  beard.     "There  were  men  then.    'Twas  a 


THE  PEASANTS'  CAMP.  221 

word  and  a  blow,  and  if  we  didn't  run  fast  enough  it 
was  to  the  bilboes  with  us,  and  we  smarted.  Your 
lordsliip  remembers.  But  now,  Heaven  help  us/'  he 
continued  with  growing  despondency  as  his  eye  ahghted 
on  dcs  Ageaux,  who  had  just  appeared  in  the  distance, 
"the  men  might  be  women!  Might  be  women,  and 
mealy-mouthed  at  that!" 

The  Vicomte  laughed  an  elderly  cackling  laugh. 
"You  didn't  think,  man,  that  the  Villeneuves  would 
come  to  this?"  he  said. 

"Never!    And  would  no  wise  ha'  believed  it!" 

"Who  were  once  masters  of  all  from  Barbesieux  to 
Vlaye!" 

"And  many  a  mile  further!"  Solomon  cried,  leaping 
on  the  proffered  hobby.  "There  were  the  twenty  manors 
of  Passirac" — he  began  to  count  on  his  hands.  "And 
the  farms  of  Perneuil,  more  than  I  have  fingers  and  toes. 
And  the  twenty  manors  of  Corde,  and  the  great  mill 
there — the  five  wind-mills  of  Passirac  I  don't  think  worth 
mentioning,  though  they  would  make  many  a  younger 
son  a  portion.  Then  the  Abbey  lands  of  Vlaye,  and  the 
great  mill  there  that  took  in  toll  as  much  as  would  keep 
a  vicomte  of  these  times,  saving  your  lordship's  presence. 
And  then  at  Brenan " 

Bonne,  listening  idly,  heard  so  much.  Then  the  Ab- 
bess, who,  unnoticed,  had  joined  the  group,  touched  her 
elbow,  and  muttered  in  her  ear:   "Do  you  see?" 

"What?"  Bonne  asked  innocently. 

The  Abbess  raised  her  hand.  "Why  he  has  dragged 
us  all  here,"  she  said. 

Bonne  followed  the  direction  of  her  sister's  hand,  and 
slowly  the  colour  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  But,  "  Why?" 
she  asked,  "I  don't  understand." 


222  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"You  don't  understand,"  Odette  answered,  "don't 
you?  It  is  plain  enough— for  the  blind."  And  she 
pointed  again  to  the  Lieutenant,  who  was  standing  at 
some  distance  from  the  group  in  close  talk  with  the 
Countess.  "The  Lieutenant  of  Perigord  is  a  great  man 
while  the  King  pleases,  and  when  the  King  no  longer 
pleases  is  an  adventurer  like  another!  A  broken  officer 
living  at  ordinaries,"  with  a  sneer,  "at  other  men's 
charges.  Such  another  as  the  creature  they  call  the 
Bat!  No  better  and  no  worse!  But  the  Lieutenant 
of  Perigord  with  the  lands  and  lordships  of  Roche- 
chouart  were  another  and  a  different  person.  And 
none  sees  that  more  clearly  than  the  Lieutenant  of 
Perigord,  He  has  made  his  opportunity,  and  he  is  not 
going  to  waste  it.  He  has  brought  her  here,  and  not 
for  nothing." 

Bonne  had  an  easy  retort.  "At  least  he  is  not  the 
first  to  see  his  interest  there!"  lay  ready  to  her  tongue. 
But  she  did  not  utter  it.  She  was  silent.  Her  colour 
jQuttered,  as  the  tender,  weakling  hope  that  she  had 
been  harbouring,  for  a  few  hours,  died  within  her.  Of 
course  she  should  have  known  it!  The  prize  that  had 
attracted  the  Captain  of  Vlaye,  the  charm  that  had 
ousted  her  handsome  sister  from  his  heart — was  it 
likely  that  M.  des  Ageaux  would  be  proof  against  these 
— ^proof  against  them  when  she  herself  had  no  prior 
claim  nor  such  counter-claims  as  beauty  and  brilliance? 
When  she  was  but  plain,  homely,  and  country-bred,  as 
her  father  often  told  her?  She  had  been  foolish;  fool- 
ish in  harbouring  the  unmaidenly  hope,  the  forward 
thought;  foolish  now  in  feeling  so  sharp  and  numbing 
a  pain. 

But  perhaps  most  foolish  in  her  inability  to  await  his 


THE  PEASANTS'  CAMP.  223 

coming.  For  he  and  the  Httle  Countess  were  approach- 
ing the  group,  at  a  slow  pace;  the  girl  talking  with  an 
animation  that  showed  she  had  quite  forgotten  her  shy- 
ness. Bonne  marked  the  manner,  the  smile,  the  con- 
fiding upward  look,  the  lifted  hand;  and  she  muttered 
something,  and  escaped  before  the  two  came  within 
earshot. 

She  wanted  to  be  alone,  quite  alone,  to  have  this  out 
with  herself;  and  she  made  for  a  tiny  cup  in  the  hill- 
side, hidden  from  the  camp  by  the  thick  branches  of 
the  plane-tree.  She  had  discovered  it  the  day  before, 
but  when  she  gained  it  now,  there  in  the  hollow  sat 
Roger,  looking  down  on  the  scene  below. 

He  nodded  as  if  he  were  not  in  the  best  of  tempers; 
which  was  strange,  for  he  had  been  in  high  spirits  an 
hour  before.  She  sat  down  beside  him,  having  no 
choice,  but  some  minutes  elapsed  before  he  opened  his 
mouth.  Then,  "Lord,"  he  exclaimed,  with  something 
between  a  groan  and  a  laugh,  ''what  a  fool  a  man  can 
be!" 

She  did  not  answer;  perhaps  for  the  word  "man" 
she  was  substituting  the  word  "woman."  He  moved 
irritably  in  his  seat.  "Hang  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "Say 
something,  Bonne!  Of  course  it  seems  funny  to  you 
that  because  she  thanked  me  prettily  the  day  I  tried  to 
cover  her  retreat  to  the  house  and — and  because  she 
talked  to  me  the  night  before  last  as  we  rode — as  if 
she  liked  it,  I  mean — I  should  forget  who  she  is!" 

"Who  she  is,"  Bonne  repeated  quietly,  thinking  of 
some  one  else  who  had  forgotten. 

"And  who  I  am!"  he  answered.  "As  if  the  Vicomte 
had  not  ground  it  into  me  enough!  If  I  were  Charles, 
she  would  still  be — who  she  is,  and  meat  for  my  master. 


224  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAl^. 

But  as  I  am  what  I  am,"  he  laughed  ruefully,  "would 
you  have  thought  I  could  be  such  a  fool,  Bomie?" 

"  Poor  Roger,"  she  said  gently. 

"She  clung  to  me  that  day,  when  I  ran  with  her. 
But,  dash  it" — rubbing  his  head — "I  must  not  think  of 
it.  I  suppose  she  would  have  clung  to  old  Solomon  just 
the  same!" 

"I  am  afraid  so!"  Bonne  said,  smiling  faintly.  It 
was  certain  that  she  had  not  clung  to  any  one.  Yet 
there  were  analogies. 

"I  suppose  you — you  saw  them  just  now?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  them." 

"She  never  talked  to  me  like  that!  Why  should 
she — a  thing  like  me."  Poor  Roger!  "I  knew  the 
moment  I  cast  eyes  on  them.  You  did,  too,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

''Yes,"  she  answered. 

Perhaps  Roger  had  hoped  in  his  heart  for  a  different 
reply,  for  he  stared  gloomily  at  the  swarming  huts  visi- 
ble above  the  tree.  And  finally,  "There  is  Charles,"  he 
said,  "walking  the  ridge — against  the  sky-line  there! 
Why  camiot  I  be  hke  him,  as  happy  as  a  king,  with  my 
head  full  of  battles  and  sieges,  and  the  Bat  more  to  me 
than  any  woman  in  the  world!  Why  cannot  I?  With 
such  a  pair  of  shoulders  as  I  have — " 

"Dear  lad!" 

"I  should  be  in  his  shoes  and  he  in  mine!  Lord, 
what  a  fool!"  with  gloomy  unction.  "What  a  fool! 
I  must  needs  think  of  her  when  a  peasant  girl  would 
not  look  at  me.  I  must  needs  think  of  the  Countess  of 
Rochechouart !  Oh,  Lord,  as  if  I  had  anything  to  give 
her!    Or  aught  I  could  do  for  her!" 

Bonne  did  not  reply  on  the  mstant.    But  presently, 


THE  PEASANTS'  CAMP.  225 

'*There  is  something  you  can  do  for  her/'  she  ventured. 
"It  is  not  much,  but " 

"What?"  he  said.     "I  know  nothing." 

"You  can  help  him." 

"The  mouse  helped  the  lion.  You  can  help  him  and 
be  at  his  side,  and  guard  him  in  danger — for  her  sake. 
Just  as,"  Bonne  continued,  her  voice  sinking  a  little, 
"if  you  were  a  girl,  and — and  felt  for  him  as  you  feel 
for  her,  you  could  watch  over  her  and  protect  her 
and  keep  her  safe — for  his  sake.  Though  it  would  be 
harder  for  a  woman,  because  women  are  jealous," 
Bonne  added  thoughtfully. 

"And  men  too!"  Roger  rejoined  from  the  depths  of 
his  small  experience.  "All  the  same  I  will  do  it.  And 
I  am  glad  it  is  he.  He  won't  beat  her,  or  shut  her  up 
and  leave  her  in  some  lonely  house  as  Court  people  do. 
I  believe,"  he  continued  gloomily,  "I'd  as  soon  it  was 
he  as  any  one." 

Bonne  nodded.  "That  is  agreed  then,"  she  said 
softly,  though  a  moment  before  she  had  sighed. 

"Agreed?"  rather  grumpily.  "Well,  if  one  person 
can  agree,  it  is!"  And  then,  thinking  he  had  spoken 
thanklessly  to  the  sister  who  had  been  his  friend  and 
consoler  in  many  a  dark  hour  when  the  shadow  of  his 
deformity  had  hidden  the  sun,  he  laid  his  hand  on  hers 
and  pressed  it.  "Well,  agreed  it  is!"  he  said  more 
brightly.  "They  came  from  their  outside  world  to  our 
poor  little  life,  and  we  must  help  them  back  again,  I 
suppose.  I  would  not  wish  them  ill,  if — if  it  would 
make  me  straight  again." 

"Thatis  a  big  bribe, "  she  said,  smiling.  "But  neither 
would  I — if  it  would  make  me  as  handsome  as  Odette!" 


226  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Nol" 

They  sat  silent  then.  Far  away  on  their  left,  where 
lay  the  entrance  to  the  camp  from  the  river  gorge,  men 
were  piling  stones  under  the  archway,  so  as  to  leave  but 
a  narrow  passage.  Below  them  on  the  right  the  Bat 
was  drilling  his  pikemen,  and  alternately  launching  hia 
lank  form  this  way  and  that  in  a  fever  of  impatience. 
On  the  sky-line  men  were  pacing  to  and  fro,  searching 
with  keen  eyes  the  misty  distance  of  glen  and  hill;  and 
ever  and  anon  the  squeal  of  a  war-horse  rang  above  the 
multitudinous  sounds  of  the  camp.  On  every  side, 
wherever  the  eye  rested,  it  discovered  signs  of  strife  and 
turmoil,  harbingers  of  pain  and  death. 

But  though  the  two  who  looked  down  on  the  scene 
neither  knew  it  nor  thought  of  it,  with  them  in  their 
little  hollow  was  a  power  mightier  than  any,  the  power 
that  in  its  highest  form  does  indeed  make  the  world 
go  round;  the  one  power  in  the  world  that  is  above 
fortune,  above  death,  above  the  creeds — or,  shall  we 
say,  behind  them.  For  with  them  was  love  in  its 
highest  form,  the  love  that  gives  and  does  not  ask,  and 
being  denied — loves.  In  their  clear  moments  men 
know  that  this  love  is  the  only  real  thing  in  the  world ; 
and  a  thousand  times  more  substantial,  more  existent, 
than  the  objects  we  grasp  and  see. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


HOSTAGES. 


There  is  bom  of  the  enthusiasm  of  self-denial  a 
happiness  that  while  the  fervour  lasts  seems  all-suffi- 
cing. The  skirmish  that  has  routed  the  van  of  jealousy 
stands  for  the  battle;  nor  does  the  victor  foresee  that 
with  the  fall  of  night  the  enemy  will  flock  again  to  the 
attack,  and  by  many  an  insidious  onset  strive  to  change 
the  fortune  of  the  day. 

Still  once  to  have  felt  the  generous  impulse,  once  to 
have  trodden  seK  underfoot  and  risen  god-like  above 
the  baser  thoughts,  is  something.  And  if  Bonne  and 
her  brother  were  destined  to  find  the  victory  less  com- 
plete than  they  thought,  if  they  were  to  know  moments 
when  the  worst  in  them  raised  its  head,  they  were  but 
as  the  best  of  us.  And  again — a  reflection  somewhat 
more  humorous — had  these  two  been  able  to  read  the 
mind  of  the  man  of  whom  each  was  thinking,  they  had 
met  with  so  curious  an  enlightenment  that  they  had 
hardly  been  able  to  look  at  one  another.  To  say  that 
des  Ageaux  entertained  no  tender  feeling  for  any  one 
were  to  say  more  than  the  truth;  for  during  the  last 
few  days  a  weakness  had  crept  unwelcome  and  unbid- 
den into  his  heart.  But  he  kept  it  sternly  in  the 
background — he   who    had    naught   to    do    with    such 

227 


228  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

things — and  it  did  not  tend  in  the  direction  of  the 
Countess.  In  point  of  fact  the  Lieutenant  had  other 
and  more  serious  food  for  thought;  other  and  more 
pressing  anxieties  than  love.  Forty-eight  hours  had 
disclosed  the  weakness  of  the  position  in  which  he 
had  chosen  to  place  himself.  He  foresaw,  if  not  the 
certainty,  the  probability  of  defeat.  And  defeat  in 
the  situation  he  had  taken  up  might  be  attended  by 
hideous  consequences. 

These  were  not  slow  to  cast  their  shadows.  The  two 
on  the  hill  had  not  sat  long  in  silent  companionship 
before  the  sounds  which  rose  from  the  camp  began  to 
take  a  sterner  note.  Roger  was  the  first  to  mark  the 
change.  Rousing  himself  and  shaking  off  his  lugu- 
brious mood,  "What  is  that?"  the  lad  asked.  "Do 
you  hear,  Bonne?    It  sounds  like  trouble  somewhere." 

"Trouble?"   she  repeated,  still  half  in  dreams. 

"Yes,  by  Jove,  but — listen!  And  what  has  become" 
— he  was  on  his  feet  by  this  time — "of  the  Bat's  ragged 
regiment?    They  have  vanished." 

"They  must  be  behind  the  tree,"  Bonne  answered. 
And  moved  by  the  same  impulse  they  walked  a  little 
aside  along  the  slope  until  they  could  see  the  section 
of  the  camp  irmnediately  below  them,  which  had  been 
hidden  hitherto  by  the  branches  of  the  great  plane-tree. 

The  little  group  wliich  Bonne  had  left  when  her 
feehngs  compelled  her  to  flight  remained  in  the  same 
place.  But  all  who  formed  it,  the  Vicomte  and  his 
eldest  daughter  as  well  as  des  Ageaux  and  the  Countess, 
were  now  on  their  feet.  The  Vicomte  and  the  ladies 
stood  together  in  the  background,  while  des  Ageaux, 
who  had  placed  himself  before  them,  confronted  an 
excited  body  of  men,  some  hundred  in  number,  an4 


HOSTAGES.  229 

composed  in  part  at  least  of  those  whom  the  Bat  had 
been  lately  drilling.  Whether  these  had  broken  from 
his  control  and  gathered  their  fellows  as  they  moved,  or 
the  impulse  had  come  from  outside  and  they  were  but 
recruits,  their  presence  rendered  the  movement  more 
formidable.  They  were  not  indeed  of  so  low  and  savage 
a  type  as  the  creatures  who  had  met  des  Ageaux  in  the 
gate  the  previous  day,  but  viewed  in  this  serried  mass, 
their  lowering  brutish  faces  and  clenched  hands  called 
up  a  vi\dd  sense  of  danger.  They  must  have  made  some 
outcry  as  they  approached,  or  Roger  had  not  noticed 
their  assemblage.  But  now  they  were  fallen  silent. 
A  grim  mass  of  scowling,  hard-breathing  men,  their 
small  suspicious  eyes  glaring  through  tangled  locks 
irresistibly  reminded  the  observer  of  that  quarry  the 
most  dangerous  of  all  the  beasts  of  chase,  the  wild  boar. 

Bonne's  colour  faded  as  her  eyes  took  in  the  meaning 
of  the  scene.  She  grew  still  paler  as  her  brain  pictured 
for  the  first  time  the  things  that  might  happen  in  this 
camp  of  clowns  of  whose  real  sentiments  the  intruders 
had  so  little  knowledge,  at  whose  possible  treachery  it 
was  so  easy  to  guess.  Time  has  not  wiped,  time  never 
will  wipe  from  the  French  memory  the  fear  of  a  Jac- 
querie. The  horrors  of  that  hideous  revolt,  of  its  rise 
and  its  suppression  are  stamped  on  the  minds  of  the 
unborn.  "What  is  it?"  she  repeated  more  than  once, 
her  heart  fluttering.  How  very,  very  near  he  stood — 
on  whom  all  depended — to  the  line  of  scowling  men! 

"A  mutiny,  I  fear!"  Roger  answered  hastity. 
"Come!"  And,  with  face  slightly  flushed,  he  hurried, 
running  and  sliding  down  the  slope. 

She  was  not  three  paces  behind  him  when  he  reached 
the  foot     Here  they  lost  sight  of  the  scene,  but  quickly 


230         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

passed  between  two  huts  and  reached  the  Vicomte's 
side.     Des  Ageaux  was  speaking. 

"I  cannot  give  you  the  man,"  he  was  saying,  "but 
I  can  give  you  justice." 

"Justice?"  the  spokesman  of  the  peasants  retorted 
bitterly — he  wore  the  dress  of  a  smith,  and  belonged  to 
that  craft.  "Who  ever  heard  but  of  one  sort  of  justice 
for  the  poor  man?  Justice,  Sir  Governor,  is  the  poor 
man's  right  to  be  hung!  The  poor  man's  right  to  be 
scourged!  The  poor  man's  right  to  be  broken  on  the 
wheel!  To  see  his  hut  burned  and  his  wife  borne  off! 
That  is  the  justice" — rudely — "the  poor  man  gets — be 
it  high  or  low,  king's  or  lord's!" 

"Ay,  ay!"  the  stern  chorus  rose  from  a  hundred 
throats  behind  him,  "that  is  the  poor  man's  justice!" 

"It  is  to  put  an  end  to  such  things  I  am  here!" 
des  Ageaux  replied,  marking  with  a  watchful  eye  the 
faces  before  him.  He  was  far  from  easy,  but  he  had 
handled  men  of  their  kind  before,  and  thought  that 
he  knew  them. 

"There  was  never  a  beginning  of  such  things,  and 
there  will  never  be  an  end!"  the  smith  returned,  the 
hopelessness  of  a  thousand  years  of  wrong  in  his  words. 
"Never!  But  give  us  this  man — he  has  done  all  these 
things,  he  and  his  master,  and  we  will  believe  you." 

"I  cannot  give  him  to  you,"  des  Ageaux  answered. 
The  same  prisoner,  one  of  Vlaye's  followers,  was  in 
question  whom  the  Old  Crocans  had  yesterday  re- 
quired to  be  given  up  to  them.  "But  I  have  told  you 
and  I  tell  you  again,"  the  Lieutenant  continued,  read- 
ing mischief  in  the  men's  faces,  "that  you  shall  have 
justice.  If  this  man  has  wronged  you  and  you  can 
prove  it " 


HOSTAGES.  231 

'"If!"  the  peasant  cried,  and  baring  his  right  arm 
he  raised  his  clenched  fist  to  heaven. 

But  the  Lieutenant  went  on  as  if  the  man  had  not 
spoken.  "If  you  can  prove  these  things  upon  him  by 
witnesses  here  present " 

"You  will  give  him  to  us?" 

"No,  I  will  not  do  that!" 

"You  will  gi\e  him  to  us!"  the  smith  repeated, 
refusing  to  hear  the  denial.  And  all  along  the  line  of 
scowling  faces — the  line  that  wavered  ominously  at 
moments  of  emotion  as  if  it  would  break  about  the  little 
group — ran  a  swift  gleam  of  white  teeth. 

But  des  Ageaux  did  not  blench.  He  raised  his  hand 
for  silence,  and  his  voice  was  steady  as  a  rock  as  he  made 
answer.  "No,"  he  said,  "I  will  not  give  him  to  you. 
He  belongs  neither  to  me  nor  to  you,  but  to  God  and  the 
King,  whose  is  justice." 

"To  God!"  the  other  snarled,  "whose  is  justice! 
Rather,  whose  servants  hold  the  lamb  that  the  devils 
may  flay  it!  And  for  the  King,  Sir  Governor,  a  fig  for 
him!    Our  own  hands  are  worth  a  dozen  kings!" 

"Stay!"  The  line  was  swaying;  in  the  nick  of  time 
des  Ageaux'  voice,  and  perhaps  something  in  his  eye, 
stayed  it.  "Listen  to  me  one  moment,"  he  continued. 
"To-morrow  morning — for  I  have  not  time  to-day — the 
man  you  accuse  shall  be  tried.  If  he  be  guilty,  before 
noon  he  shall  die.     If  he  be  not  guilty,  he  shall  go !" 

A  murmur  of  protest. 

But  des  Ageaux  raised  his  head  higher  and  spoke 
more  sternly.  "He  shall  go!"  he  repeated — and  for 
the  moment  he  mastered  them.  "If  he  be  innocent  he 
shall  go!  Wliat  more  do  you  claim?  To  what  beyond 
have  you  a  right?    And  now,"  he  continued,  as  he  saw 


232  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

them  pause  angry  but  undecided,  "for  yourselves!  I 
have  told  you,  I  tell  you  again  that  this  is  your  last  chance. 
That  I  and  the  offer  I  make  you  are  your  last  hope! 
There  is  a  man  there" — with  his  forefinger  he  singled 
out  a  tall  youth  with  a  long,  narrow  face  and  light  blue 
eyes — "  who  promises  that  when  you  are  attacked  he  will 
wave  his  arm,  and  Vlaye  and  his  riders  will  fall  on  their 
faces  as  fell  the  walls  of  Jericho!  Do  you  believe  him? 
Will  you  trust  your  wives  and  children  to  him?  And 
another" — again  he  singled  out  a  man,  a  beetle-browed 
dwarf,  hideous  of  aspect,  survivor  of  some  ancient  race — 
"who  promises  victory  if  you  will  sacrifice  your  captives 
on  yonder  stone !  Do  you  believe  him?  And  if  you  do 
not  trust  these,  in  what  do  you  trust?  Can  naked  men 
stand  before  mailed  horses?  Can  you  take  castles  with 
your  bare  hands?  You  have  left  your  villages,  you  have 
slain  your  oxen,  you  have  burned  your  tools,  you  have 
slain  your  lords'  men,  you  have  taken  the  field.  Have 
peasants  ever  done  these  things — and  not  perished 
sooner  or  later  on  gibbets  and  in  dungeons?  And  such 
will  be  your  fate,  and  the  fate  of  your  women  and  your 
children,  if  you  will  go  your  way  and  will  not  listen!" 

"  What  do  you  promise  us?"  The  question  in  various 
forms  broke  from  a  dozen  throats. 

"First,  justice  on  the  chief  of  your  oppressors." 

"The  Captain  of  Vlaye?" 

"The  same." 

"Ay,  ay!"  Their  harsh  cries  marked  approval. 
Some  with  dark  looks  spat  on  their  hands  and  worked 
their  right  arms  to  and  fro. 

"Next,"  des  Ageaux  continued,  "that  which  never 
peasant  who  took  the  field  had  yet — pardon  for  the  past. 
To  those  who  fear  not  to  go  back,  leave  to  return  to 


HOSTAGES.  233 

their  homes.  To  those  who  liave  broken  their  lords' 
laws  a  settlement  elsewhere  with  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren. To  every  man  of  his  hands,  when  he  leaves,  ten 
deniers  out  of  the  spoils  of  Vlaye  to  carry  him  to  his 
home." 

Nine  out  of  ten  marked  their  approval  by  a  shout;  and 
des  Ageaux  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  thinking  all  well. 
But  the  smith  turned  and  exchanged  some  words  with 
the  men  nearest  him,  chiding  them  and  reminding  them 
of  something.     Then  he  turned  again. 

"Fine  words!  But  for  all  this  what  pledge,  Sir 
Governor?"  he  asked  with  a  sneer.  "What  warranty 
that  when  we  have  done  our  part  we  shall  not  to  gibbet 
or  gallows  like  our  fellows?" 

"The  Kmg's  word!" 

"Ay?    And  hostages?    What  hostages?" 

"Hostages?"  The  Lieutenant's  voice  rang  sharp 
with  anger. 

"Ay,  hostages!"  the  man  answered  sturdily,  in- 
formed by  the  murmurs  of  his  fellows  that  he  had  got 
them  back  into  the  road  from  which  des  Ageaux'  argu- 
ments had  led  them.     "We  must  have  hostages." 

Clearly  they  had  made  up  their  minds  to  this,  they 
had  determined  on  it  beforehand.  For  with  one  voice, 
"We  must  have  hostages!"  they  thundered. 

Des  Ageaux  paused  before  he  answered — paused  in 
dismay.  It  looked  as  if — already  he  feared  it — he  had 
put  out  his  hand  too  far.  As  if  he  had  trusted  too 
impHcitly  to  his  management  of  men,  and  risked  not 
himself  only,  but  women;  women  of  the  class  to  which 
these  human  beasts  set  down  their  wrongs,  women  on 
whom  the  least  accident  or  provocation  might  lead 
them  to  wreak  their  vengeance!    If  it  were  so!    But 


234         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

he  dared  not  follow  up  the  thought,  lest  the  coolness  on 
which  all  depended  should  leave  him.  Instead,  "We 
are  all  your  hostages,"  he  said. 

"And  what  of  those?  And  those?"  the  smith 
answered.  With  a  cunning  look  he  pointed  to  the  two 
knots  of  troopers  whom  des  Ageaux  had  brought  with 
him.  "And  by-and-by  there  will  be  more.  Madame" 
— he  pointed  to  the  Httle  Countess  who  had  shrunk  to 
Bonne's  side,  and  stood  witn  the  elder  girl's  arm  about 
her — "Madame  has  sent  for  fifty  riders  from  her  lands 
in  the  north — on,  we  know!  And  the  Duke  who  is  ill, 
for  another  hundred  and  fifty  from  Bergerac!  When 
they  come" — with  a  leer — "where  will  be  our  hostages? 
No,  it  is  now  we  must  talk.  Sir  Governor,  or  not  at  all." 

Des  Ageaux,  his  cheek  flushed,  reflected  amid  an 
uneasy  silence.  He  knew  tnat  two  of  his  riders  were 
away  bearing  letters,  and  that  four  more  were  patrolling 
the  valley;  that  two  with  Charles  de  Villeneuve  were 
isolated  on  the  ridge,  unable  to  help;  in  a  word,  that 
no  more  than  twelve  or  thirteen  were  within  call,  who, 
separated  from  tneir  horses,  were  no  match  for  a  mob 
of  men  outnumbering  them  by  five  or  six  to  one,  and 
whom  the  first  blow  would  recruit  from  every  quarter 
of  the  seething  camp.  He  had  miscalculated,  and  saw 
it.  He  had  miscalculated,  and  the  consequences  he 
dare  not  weigh.  The  men  in  whose  power  he  had 
placed  himself — and  so  much  more  than  himself — were 
not  the  dull  clods  he  had  deemed  them,  but  alike  fero- 
cious and  suspicious,  ready  on  the  first  hint  of  treachery 
to  exact  a  fearful  vengeance.  No  man  had  ever  kept 
faith  with  them;  why  should  they  believe  that  he 
would  keep  faith?  He  shut  his  teeth  hard.  "I  will 
consider  the  matter,"  he  said,  "and  let  you  know  my 


HOSTAGES.  235 

answer  to-morrow  at  noon."  He  spoke  as  ending  the 
conference,  and  he  made  as  if  he  would  turn  on  his  heel. 

"Ay,  when  madame's  fifty  spears  are  come?"  the 
smith  cried.  "That  will  not  do!  If  you  mean  us  well 
give  us  hostages.  If  you  mean  us  ill,"  taking  one  step 
forward  with  an  insolent  gesture 

"Fool,  I  mean  you  no  ill!"  the  Lieutenant  answered 
sternly.     "If  I  meant  you  ill,  why  should  I  be  here?" 

But  "Hostages!  Hostages!"  the  crowd  answered, 
raising  weapons  and  fists. 

Their  cries  drowned  his  words.  A  score  of  hands 
threatened  him.  Without  looking,  he  felt  that  the  Bat 
and  his  troopers,  a  little  clump  apart,  were  prepaiing  to 
intervene,  and  he  knew  that  on  his  next  movement  all 
depended.  The  pale  faces  behind  him  he  could  not 
see,  for  he  was  aware  that  if  his  eye  left  his  opponents, 
they  would  fall  upon  him.  At  any  second  a  hunied 
gesture,  or  the  least  sign  of  fear  might  unloose  the  tor- 
rent, and  well  was  it  for  all  that  in  many  a  like  scene  his 
nerve  had  been  tempered  to  hardness.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  shall  have  your  hostages." 

"Ay,  ay!"  A  sudden  relaxation,  a  falling  back  into 
quietude  of  the  seething  mass  approved  the  consent. 

"You  shall  have  my  lieutenant,"  he  continued, 
"and " 

"And  I  will  be  the  other,"  cried  Roger  manfully. 
He  stepped  forward.  "I  am  the  son  of  M.  le  Vicomte 
there!    I  will  be  j'^our  hostage,"  he  repeated. 

But  the  smith,  turning  to  his  followers,  grinned. 
"We'd  be  little  the  better  for  them,"  he  said.  "Eh? 
No,  Sir  Governor!    We  must  have  our  choice  1" 

"Your  choice,  rogues?" 


236  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Ay,  we'll  have  the  pick !"  the  crowd  shouted.  "The 
best  of  the  basket!"    Amid  ferocious  laughter. 

Des  Ageaux  had  suspected  for  some  hours  past  that 
he  had  done  a  foolish,  a  fatally  foolish  thing  in  trusting 
these  men,  whom  no  man  had  ever  trusted.  He  saw 
now  that  only  two  courses  stood  open  to  him.  He 
might  strike  the  smith  down  at  his  feet,  and  risk  all  on 
the  effect  which  the  act  might  have  on  his  followers; 
or  he  might  yield  what  they  asked,  allow  them  to  choose 
their  hostages,  and  trust  to  time  and  sldll  for  the  rest. 
His  instincts  were  all  for  the  bolder  course,  but  he  had 
women  behind  him,  and  their  chance  in  a  conflict  so 
unequal  must  be  desperate.  With  a  quietness  and 
firmness  characteristic  of  the  man  he  accepted  his 
defeat. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "It  matters  nothing.  Whom 
v/ill  you  have?" 

"We'll  have  you,"  the  smith  replied  grinning,  "and 
her!"  With  a  grimy  hand  he  pointed  to  the  little 
Countess  who  with  Bonne's  arm  about  her  and  Fulbert 
at  her  elbow  was  staring  fascinated  at  the  line  of  sav- 
age faces. 

"You  cannot  have  a  lady!"  the  Lieutenant  answered 
with  a  cnill  at  his  heart. 

"Ay,  but  it  is  she  who  has  the  riders  who  are  com- 
ing!" the  smith  retorted  shrewdly.  "It  is  her  we  want 
and  it  is  her  we'll  have!  We'll  do  her  no  harm,  and 
she  may  have  her  own  hut  on  our  side,  and  her  woman 
with  her,  and  a  man  if  she  pleases.  And  you  may 
have  a  hut  beside  hers,  if  one,"  with  a  wink,  "won't  do 
for  the  two." 

"But,  man,"  des  Ageaux  cried,  his  brow  dark,  "how 
can  I  take  Vlaye  and  his  castle  while  I  lie  a  hostage?" 


HOSTAGES.  237 

"Oh,  you  shall  go  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro.  Sir  Govern- 
or!" the  smith  answered  lightly.  "We'll  not  be  too 
strict  if  you  are  there  of  nights.  And  we  will  know 
ourselves  safe.  And  as  we  live  by  bread,"  he  continued 
stoutly,  "we'll  do  her  no  harm  if  faith  be  kept  with 
us!" 

Des  Ageaux  endeavoured  to  hide  his  emotion,  but  the 
sweat  stood  on  his  brow.  Defeat  is  bitter  to  all.  To 
the  man  who  has  long  been  successful  most  bitter. 

Suddenly,  "I  will  go!"  said  the  Countess  bravely. 
And  she  stepped  forward  by  the  Lieutenant's  side,  a 
little  figure,  shrinking,  yet  resolute.  "I  will  go,"  she 
repeated,  trembling  with  excitement,  yet  facing  the 
men. 

"No!"  Roger  cried — and  then  was  silent.  It  was 
not  for  him  to  speak.     What  could  he  do? 

"We  will  all  go!"  Bonne  said. 

"Nay,  but  that  will  not  do,"  the  smith  replied,  with 
a  sly  grimace.  "For  then  they" — he  pointed  to  the 
little  knot  of  troopers  who  waited  with  sullen  faces  a 
short  arrow-shot  away — "would  be  coming  as  well. 
The  lady  may  bring  a  woman  if  she  pleases,  and  her 
man  there,  as  1  said."  He  nodded  towards  Fulbert. 
"But  no  more,  or  we  are  no  gainers!" 

To  the  Lieutenant  that  moment  was  one  of  the 
bitterest  of  his  life.  He,  the  King's  Governor,  who 
had  acted  as  master,  who  had  forced  the  Vicomte  and 
his  party  to  come  into  his  plans,  whether  they  would 
or  no,  stood  out-generalled  by  a  miob  of  peasants, 
whom  he  had  thought  to  use  as  tools!  And  not  only 
that,  but  the  young  Countess,  whose  safety  he  had 
made  the  pretext  for  the  abandonment  of  the  chateau, 
must  surrender  herself  to  a  risk  more  serious — ay,  far 


238  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

more  serious,  than  that  from  which  he  had  made  this 
ado  to  save  her! 

Humihation  could  scarcely  go  farther.  It  was  to 
his  credit,  it  was  perhaps  some  proof  of  his  capacity  for 
government  that,  seeing  the  thing  inevitable,  he  re- 
frained from  useless  words  or  protest,  and  sternly 
agreed.  He  and  the  Countess  would  remove  to  the 
farther  side  of  the  camp  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

"With  a  man  and  a  maid  only?"  the  smith  persisted, 
knitting  his  brows.  Having  got  what  he  had  asked 
he  doubted. 

"The  Countess  of  Rochechouart  will  be  so  attended," 
the  Lieutenant  answered  sternly. 

"And  you,  Sir  Governor?" 

"I  am  a  soldier,"  he  retorted,  so  curtly  that  they 
were  abashed.  With  some  muttering  they  began  to 
melt  away.  Awhile  they  stood  in  groups,  discus.-ing 
the  matter.  Then  gradually  they  retired  across  the 
rivulet  to  their  quarters. 

The  Lieutenant  had  been  almost  happy  had  that 
ended  it.  But  he  had  to  face  those  whom  he  had  led 
into  this  trap,  those  whom  he  had  forced  to  trust  him, 
those  whom  he  had  carried  from  their  home.  He  was 
not  long  in  learning  their  views. 

"A  soldier!"  the  Vicomte  repeated,  taking  up  his 
last  word  in  a  voice  shaking  with  passion.  "You  call 
yourself  a  soldier  and  you  bring  us  to  this!  To  this!" 
With  loathing  he  described  the  outline  of  the  camp 
with  his  staff.  "You  a  soldier,  and  cast  women  to 
these  devils!  Pah!  Since  Coutras  there  may  be  such 
soldiers!    But  in  my  time,  no!" 

He  did  not  reply:  and  the  Abbess  took  up  the  tale. 
"Excellent!"  she  said,  with  bitterest  irony.     "We  are 


HOSTAGES.  239 

all  now  assured  of  your  prudence  and  sagacity,  sir! 
The  safety  and  freedom  which  we  enjoy  here,  the  ease 
of  mind  which  the  Countess  will  doubtless  enjoy  to- 
night  " 

"Do  not  frighten  her,  mademoiselle!"  he  said,  re- 
pressing himself.  Then,  as  if  an  impulse  moved  him, 
he  turned  slowly  to  Bonne.  "Have  you  nothing  to 
add,  mademoiselle?"  he  asked,  in  a  peculiar  tone. 

"Nothing!"  she  answered  bravely.  And  then — it 
needed  some  courage  to  speak  before  her  father  and 
sister,  "Were  I  in  the  Countess's  place  I  should  not 
fear.     I  am  sure  she  will  be  safe  with  you." 

"Safe!"  Odette  cried,  her  eyes  flashing.  In  the 
excitement  of  the  moment  the  plans  she  had  so  recently 
made  were  forgotten.  "Ay,  as  safe  as  a  lamb  among 
wolves!  As  safe  as  a  nun  among  robbers!  So  safe 
that  1  for  one  am  for  leaving  this  moment.  Ay,  for 
leaving,  and  now!"  she  continued,  stamping  her  foot 
on  the  sward  "What  is  it  to  us  if  this  gentleman, 
who  calls  himself  the  Governor  of  Perigord — and  may 
be  such,  I  care  not  whether  he  is  or  not — has  a  quarrel 
with  M.  de  Vlaye  and  would  fain  use  us  in  it  as  he 
uses  these  brute  beasts?  What,  I  say,  is  it  to  us?  Or 
why  do  we  take  part?  M.  le  Vicomte" — she  turned  to 
her  father — "if  you  are  still  master  of  Villeneuve,  you 
will  order  our  horses  and  take  us  thither.  We  have 
naught  to  fear,  I  say  it  again,  we  have  naught  to  fear 
at  M.  de  Vlaye's  hands;  and  if  we  fall  into  them 
between  this  and  Villeneuve,  so  much  the  better!  But 
if  we  stay  here  we  have  all  to  tear."  In  truth  she  was 
honestly  frightened.     She  thought  the  case  de  perate. 

' '  Mademoiselle ' ' 

"No,  sir!"  she  retorted,  turning  from  him.     "I  did 


240  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

not  speak  to  you;  but  to  you,  M.  le  Vicomte!  Sir, 
you  hear  me?  Is  it  not  your  will  that  we  order  the 
horses  and  go  from  here?" 

"If  we  can  go  safely " 

"You  cannot  go  safely!"  des  Ageaux  said,  with  re- 
turning decision.  "  If  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the 
Captain  of  Vlaye,  the  Countess  has.  Nor  is  that  all. 
These  men" — he  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  peasants, 
who  were  buzzing  about  their  huts  like  a  swarm  of  bees 
— "have  forced  my  hand,  but  through  fear  and  distrust, 
not  in  malice.  They  mean  us  no  harm  if  we  mean  them 
none.  But  the  Old  Crocans,  as  they  call  themselves,  in 
the  town  on  the  hill — if  you  fall  into  their  hands,  M.  le 
Vicomte — and  beyond  the  lines  of  this  camp  no  one  is 
safe  from  their  prowling  bands — then  indeed  God  help 
you!" 

"God  help  us  whether  or  no!"  the  Vicomte  answered 
in  senile  anger,  "I  wash  my  hands  of  it  all,  of  it  all! 
I  am  nothing  here,  and  have  been  nothing!  Let  who 
will  do!     The  world  is  mad!" 

"Certainly  we  were  mad  when  we  trusted  you!"  the 
Abbess  cried,  addressing  des  Ageaux.  "Never  so  mad! 
But  if  I  mistake  not,  here  is  another  with  good  news! 
Oh!"  to  the  Bat,  who,  with  a  shamefaced  air,  was 
hovering  on  the  skirts  of  the  group,  as  if  he  were  not 
sure  of  his  reception,  "speak,  sir,  without  reserve!  We 
all  know" — in  a  tone  of  mockery — "how  fair  and  safely 
we  stand!" 

Des  Ageaux  turned  to  his  follower.  "What  is  it?" 
he  asked. 

"The  prisoner  is  missing,  my  lord." 

The  Abbess  laughed  bitterly.  The  others  looked  at 
the  Bat  Avith  faces  of  dismay.     "Missing?    The  man  we 


HOSTAGES.  241 

have  promised  to  hold  for  them.  How?  "  des  Ageaux  ex- 
claimed sternly.   This  was  a  fresh  blow  and  a  serious  one. 

"When  I  saw,  my  lord,  that  we  were  like  to  be  in 
trouble  here,  I  drew  off  the  two  men  who  were  guarding 
him.     He  was  bound,  and — we  had  too  few  as  it  was." 

"But  he  cannot  have  passed  the  ramparts." 

"Anyway  we  cannot  find  him,"  the  Bat  answered, 
looking  ashamed  and  uncomfortable.  "I've  searched 
the  huts,  and " 

"Is  it  known?" 

"No,  my  lord." 

"Then  set  the  guards  as  before  over  the  hut  in  which 
you  had  him,  and  see  that  the  matter  does  not  leak  out 
to-night." 

"But  if,"  the  Bat  objected,  "they  discover  that  he  is 
gone  while  you  are  with  them  to-night,  my  lord,  they 
are  in  an  ugly  mood,  and " 

"They  must  not  discover  it!"  des  Ageaux  answered 
firmly.  "Go,  see  to  it  yourself.  And  let  two  men 
whom  you  can  trust  continue  the  search,  but  as  if  they 
had  lost  something  of  their  own," 

The  Bat  went  on  his  errand;  and  the  Abbess,  with 
this  fresh  weapon  in  her  quiver,  prepared  to  resume  the 
debate.  But  the  Lieutenant  would  not  have  it,  "  Made- 
moiselle," he  said,  with  a  look  which  silenced  her,  "if 
you  say  more  to  alarm  the  Countess,  whose  courage" 
— he  bowed  in  the  direction  of  the  pale  frightened  girl 
— "is  an  example  to  us  all,  she  will  not  dare  to  go  this 
evening.  And  if  she  does  not  go,  the  lives  of  all  will 
be  in  danger.     An  end  of  this,  if  you  please!" 

And  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  left  them. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SAINT     AND     SINNERo 

An  hour  later  the  Lieutenant  was  with  the  Duke  in  his 
quarters,  and  had  imparted  to  him  what  he  knew  of  the 
position.  The  Duke  listened,  not  much  affected;  nay, 
with  sometliing  approaching  indifference. 

"It  is  a  question  of  four  days  then?"  he  rejoined,  as 
he  painfully  moved  himself  on  his  litter.  They  had 
made  him  as  comfortable  as  they  could,  screening  the 
head  of  his  couch,  which  was  towards  the  hut  door, 
with  a  screen  of  wattle.  Against  one  wall,  if  wall  that 
could  be  called  which  was  of  like  make  with  the  screen, 
ran  a  low  bench  of  green  turves,  and  on  this  des  Ageaux 
was  seated. 

"Of  four  days — and  nights,"  the  Lieutenant  made 
answer,  masking  a  slight  shiver.  He  was  not  thinking 
of  his  own  position,  but  of  the  young  Countess;  neither 
her  fears  nor  the  courage  with  which  she  controlled  them 
were  a  secret  from  him.  "To-day  is  Saturday.  The 
Countess's  men  should  be  here  by  Monday,  your  mxcn, 
M.  de  Joyeuse,  by  Wednesday.  All  will  be  well  then; 
and  I  doubt  not  with  such  support  we  can  handle  the 
Captain  of  \laye.  But  until  then  we  run  a  double 
risk." 

"Of  Vlaye,  of  course." 

242 


SMNT  AND  SINNER.  243 

"^And  of  our  own  people  if  anything  occur  to  ex- 
asperate them." 

Joyeuse  laughed  recklessly.  "Vogue  la  gaUre!"  he 
cried.  "  The  plot  grows  thicker.  I  came  for  adventure, 
and  I  have  it.  Ah,  man,  if  you  had  lived  within  the 
four  walls  of  a  convent!" 

Des  Ageaux  shook  his  head.  He  knew  the  wanton 
courage  of  the  man,  who,  sick  and  helpless,  found  joy 
in  the  peril  that  surrounded  them.  But  he  was  very 
far  from  sharing  the  feeling.  The  dangers  that  threat- 
ened the  party  lay  heavy  on  the  man  who  was  respon- 
sible for  all.  The  tremors  of  the  young  girl  who  must 
share  his  risk  that  evening,  the  bitter  reproaches  of 
the  Abbess  and  her  father,  even  the  confidence  that 
Bonne's  eyes  rather  than  her  lips  avowed,  all  tor- 
mented him;  so  that  to  see  this  man  revelling  in  that 
which  troubled  him  so  sorely,  insulted  his  reason. 

"I  fancy,  my  lord,"  he  said,  a  faint  note  of  resent- 
ment in  his  tone,  "if  you  had  had  to  face  these  rogues 
this  morning  you  had  been  less  confident  this  evening." 

''Were  they  so  spiteful?"  The  Duke  raised  himself 
on  his  elbow.  "Well,  I  say  again,  you  made  a  mis- 
take. You  should  have  run  the  spokesman  through 
the  throat!  Ca!  Sal"  He  made  a  pass  through  the 
air.     "And  trust  me,  the  rest  of  the  knaves " 

"Might  have  left  none  of  us  alive  to  tell  the  tale!" 
the  Lieutenant  retorted. 

"I  don't  know  that!" 

"But  I  suspect  it!"  des  Ageaux  replied  warmly. 
"And  I  do  beg  you,  my  lord,  to  be  guided  in  this.  I 
am  more  than  grateful  for  the  impulse  which  led  you  to 
come  to  my  assistance.  But  honestly  I  had  been  more 
glad  if  you  had  brought  a  couple  of  hundred  spears  with 


244  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

you.  As  it  is,  the  least  imprudence  may  cost  us  more 
than  our  own  lives !  And  it  behoves  us  all  to  remem- 
ber that!" 

"The  least  imprudence!" 

"Certainly." 

The  Duke  laughed  softly — at  nothing  that  appeared. 
"So!"  he  said.  "The  least  imprudence  may  destroy 
us,  may  it?  The  least  imprudence!"  And  then,  sud- 
denly sobered,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  Lieutenant. 
"But  what  of  letting  j^our  prisoner  go,  eh?  What  of 
that?  Was  not  that  an  imprudence,  most  wise  Solo- 
mon?" 

"'A  very  great  one!"  des  Ageaux  replied  with  a  sigh. 

"What  shall  you  do  when,  to-morrow  morning,  they 
claim  his  trial?" 

"What  I  can,"  the  Lieutenant  answered,  frowning 
and  sitting  more  erect.  "See  that  the  Countess  returns 
early  to  this  side;  M^iere  the  Bat  must  make  the  best 
dispositions  he  can  for  your  safety.  Meanwhile,  I 
shall  tell  them  and  make  them  see  reason  if  I 
can!" 

"Lord!"  the  Duke  said  with  genuine  gusto,  "I  wish 
I  were  in  your  place!" 

"I  wish  you  were,"  des  Ageaux  replied.  "And  still 
more  that  I  had  the  rogue  by  the  leg  again." 

"Do  you?" 

"Do  I?"  the  Lieutenant  repeated  in  astonishment. 
"I  do  indeed.  The  odds  are  they  will  maintain  that 
we  released  him  on  purpose,  and  dearly  we  may  pay 
for  it!" 

For  a  moment  the  Duke,  flat  on  his  back,  looked 
thoughtful.  Then,  "Umph!"  he  said,  "you  think  so? 
But  you  were  always  a  croaker,  des  Ageaux,  and  you 


SAINT  AND  SINNER.  245 

are  making  the  worst  of  it!  Still — you  would  like  to 
lay  your  hand  on  him,  would  you?" 

"I  would  indeed  1" 

The  Duke  rose  on  his  elbow.  "Would  you  mind 
giving  me — I  am  a  little  cold — that  cloak?"  he  said. 
"No,"  as  des  Ageaux  moved  to  do  it,  "not  that  one 
under  your  hand — the  small  one!    Thank  you.     I " 

He  could  not  finish.  He  was  shaking  with  laugh- 
ter— which  he  vainly  tried  to  repress.  Des  Ageaux 
stared.  And  then,  "What  have  I  done  to  amuse  you 
so  much,  my  lord?"  he  asked  coldly,  as  he  rose. 

"Much  and  little,"  the  Duke  answered,  still  shaking. 

"Much  or  little,"  des  Ageaux  retorted,  "you  will  do 
yourself  no  good  by  laughing  so  violently.  If  your 
wound,  my  lord,  sets  to  bleeding  again " 

"Pray  for  the  soul  of  Henry,  Duke  of  Joyeuse,  Count 
of  Bouchagel"  the  Duke  replied  lightly.  Yet  on  the 
instant,  and  by  a  transition  so  abrupt  as  to  sound  in- 
credible to  men  of  these  days,  he  composed  his  face, 
groped  for  his  rosary,  and  began  to  say  his  offices. 
The  suddenness  of  the  change,  the  fervour  of  his  man- 
ner, the  earnestness  of  his  voice  astonished  the  Lieu- 
tenant, intimately  as  he  knew  this  strange  man.  Awhile 
he  waited,  then  he  rose  and  made  for  the  door. 

But  Joyevise — not  the  Duke  of  three  minutes  before, 
but  Fr^re  Ange  of  the  Capuchin  convent — stopped  him 
with  a  movement  of  his  eyes.  "And  why  not,"  said  he, 
"to-day  as  well  as  to-morrow?  No  man  need  be  afraid 
to  die  who  prepares  himself.  The  soldier  above  all, 
Lieutenant,  for  the  true  secret  of  courage  is  to  repent. 
Ay,  to  repent,"  he  continued  in  a  voice,  sweet  and  thrill- 
ing, and  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  strangely  gentle  and 
compeUing.     "Friend,   are  you  prepared?    Have  you 


246  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

confessed  lately?  If  not,  kneel  down!  Kneel,  man, 
and  let  us  say  a  dozen  aves,  and  a  couple  of  Paternos- 
ters! It  will  be  no  time  wasted,"  he  continued  anx- 
iously. "No  man  has  sinned  more  than  I  have.  No 
man,  no  man !  Yet  I  face  death  like  one  in  a  thousand ! 
And  why?    Why,  man?    Because  it  is  not  I,  but " 

But  there  are  things  too  high  for  the  level  of  such  nar- 
rations as  this,  and  too  grave  for  such  treatment  as  is 
here  essayed.  The  character  of  this  man  was  so  ab- 
normal, he  played  with  so  much  enthusiasm  his  alter- 
nate roles,  that  without  this  passing  glimpse  of  his  rarer 
side — that  side  which  in  the  mtervals  of  wild  revelry 
led  him  to  dying  beds  and  sick  men's  couches — but  one- 
half  of  him  could  be  understood.  Not  that  he  was 
quite  alone  in  the  possession  of  this  trait.  It  was  a 
characteristic  of  the  age  to  combine  the  most  flagrant 
sins  with  the  strictest  observances;  and  a  few  like  M. 
de  Joyeuse  added  to  both  a  real,  if  intermittent  and 
hysterical,  repentance. 

On  this  occasion  it  was  not  long  before  he  showed 
his  other  face.  The  Abbess,  after  waiting  without 
and  fretting  much — for  she  had  returned  to  the  pur- 
pose momentarily  abandoned,  and  the  length  of  the 
interview  alarmed  her — won  entrance  at  last.  She 
exchanged  a  cold  greeting  with  the  departing  Lieutenant, 
then  took  his  place,  book  in  hand,  on  the  green  bench. 
For  a  while  there  was  silence.  She  had  so  far  played 
her  part  with  success.  The  Duke  knew  not  whether 
to  call  her  saint  or  woman;  and  that  he  might  lemain 
in  that  doubt  she  now  left  it  to  him  to  speak.  At 
the  same  time  she  left  him  at  liberty  to  look:  for 
she  knew  that  bending  thus  at  her  devotions  she  must 
appear  more  striking  to  his  jaded  senses.     And  he,  for  a 


SAINT  AND  SINNER.  247 

time,   was   mute   also,   and   thoughtful;    so   much  he 
gave  to  the  scene  just  ended. 

It  is  possible  that  the  silence  was  prolonged  by  the 
chance  of  considering  her  at  leisure  which  she  was 
careful  to  afford  him.  He  was  still  weak,  the  better 
side  of  him  was  still  uppermost;  and  handsome  as  she 
was,  he  saw  her  through  a  medium  of  his  own,  in  a 
halo  of  meekness  and  goodness  and  purity.  Thus 
viewed  she  fell  in  with  his  higher  mood,  she  was  a  part 
of  it,  she  prolonged  it.  A  time  would  come,  would  most 
certainly  come,  when  one  of  the  wildest  libertines  of  his 
day  would  see  her  otherwise,  and  in  the  woman  forget 
the  saint.  But  it  had  not  yet  come.  And  the  Abbess, 
with  her  pure,  cold  profile,  bent  over  her  book,  and, 
with  her  thoughts  apparently  in  heaven,  knew  also  that 
her  time  had  not  yet  come. 

Though  her  face  betrayed  nothing,  she  was  in  an 
angry  mood.  She  had  gained  little  by  the  altercation 
with  des  Ageaux;  and  though  the  simpUcity  which 
he  had  betrayed  in  his  dealings  with  the  peasants 
excited  her  boundless  contempt — he,  to  pit  himself 
against  M.  de  Vlaye! — the  peril  which  it  brought  upon 
all  heigntened  that  contempt  to  anger.  If  the  peril 
had  been  his  only,  or  included  the  Countess  only,  if  it 
had  threatened  those  only  whom  she  could  so  well 
spare,  and  towards  whose  undoing  her  brain  was  busily 
working,  she  could  have  borne  it  bravely  and  gaily. 

But  the  case  was  far  other;  and  something  she  re- 
gretted that  she  had  not  bowed  to  her  first  impulse  in 
the  chapel  and  called  to  M.  de  Vlaye,  and  gone  to  him — 
ay,  gone  to  him  empty-handed  as  she  was,  without  the 
triumph  of  which  she  had  dreamed.  For  the  jeopardy 
in  which  she  and  all  her  family  now  stood  put  her  in  a 


248  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

dilemma.  If  the  Lieutenant  kept  faith  with  the  peas- 
ants and  all  went  well,  it  would  go  ill  with  her  lover. 
If,  on  the  contrary,  M.  des  Ageaux  failed  to  restrain 
the  peasants,  it  might  go  ill  with  herself. 

It  came  always  to  this:  she  must  win  over  the  Duke. 
Of  the  allies  against  Vlaye,  he,  with  his  hundred  and 
fifty  horse,  due  to  arrive  on  the  Wednesday,  with  the 
larger  support  which  he  could  summon  if  it  were  neces- 
sary, and  with  his  favour  at  Court,  was  by  far  the 
most   formidable.     Detach    him,    and   the    Lieutenant 
with  his  handful  of  riders,  backed  though  he  might  be 
by  the  Countess's  men,  and  the  peasant  rout  would 
be  very  likely  to  fail.     It  came  back  then  always  to 
this:   she  must  win  the  Duke.     As  she  pondered,  with 
her  eyes  on  her  book,  as  she  considered  again  and 
anew  this  resolution,  the  noises  of  the  camp,  the  Bat's 
sharp  word  of  command — for  he  had  fallen  imperturb- 
ably  to  drilling  as  if  that  were  the  one  thing  necessary — 
the  Vicomte's  querulous  voice,  and  the  more  distant 
babel  of  the  peasants'  quarter,  all  added  weight  to  her 
thoughts.     And    then    on    a    sudden    an    alien    sound 
broke  the  current.     The  man  lying  beside  her  laughed. 

She  glanced  at  him,  startled  for  the  moment  out  of 
her  role.  The  Duke  was  shaking  with  merriment. 
Confused,  not  understanding,  she  rose.  "My  lord,"  she 
said,  half  offended,  "what  is  it?    What  moves  you?" 

"A  rare  joke,"  he  answered.  "I  was  loth  to  inter- 
rupt your  thoughts,  fair  sister,  but  'twas  too  much  for 
me."     He  fell  to  laughing  again. 

"You  will  injure  yourself,  my  lord,"  she  said,  chiding 
him  gently,  "if  you  laugh  so  violently." 

"Oh,  but "     The  litter  shook  under  him. 

"At  least,"  she  said,  with  a  look  more  tender  and  less 


SAINT  AND  SINNER.  249 

saintly  than  she  had  yet  permitted  herself,  "you  will 
tell  me  what  it  is!    What " 

"Raise  that — the  cloak!"  he  said.  He  pointed  with 
his  hand.  "  Remove  it,  I  mean,  and  you  will  see  what — 
what  you  will  see!" 

She  obeyed  and  immediately  recoiled  with  a  low  cry, 
the  cloak  in  her  hand.  "Mon  Dieu!^'  she  whispered, 
with  the  colour  gone  from  her  cheeks.  "Who — who  is 
he?    Who  is  he?"     She  shuddered. 

The  man  her  act  had  revealed  rose  from  his  hiding- 
place,  his  face  whiter  than  hers,  his  haggard,  shifty 
eyes  betrajdng  his  terror. 

"My  lord!"  he  cried,  "you  will  not  betray  me?  My 
lord,  you  passed  your  word!" 

"Pah,  coward,  be  silent!"  the  Duke  answered.  He 
turned  to  the  Abbess,  his  eyes  dancing.  "Do  you  know 
him?"  he  asked. 

"He  is  M.  de  Vlaye's  man,"  she  said.  "The  pris- 
oner!" She  was  pale  and  she  frowned,  her  hands 
pressed  to  her  breast. 

"Whom  they  are  so  anxious  to  hang!"  the  Duke 
repHed,  chuckling.  "And  whom  des  Ageaux  is  so 
anxious  to  have  under  his  hand!  Ha!  ha!  Those  were 
his  words!  Under  his  hand!  When  he  touched  the 
cloak  I  thought  I  should  have  died.  And  you,  rascal, 
what  did  you  think?  You  thought  you  were  going  to 
die,  I'll  be  sworn!" 

"My  lord — my  lord!"  the  man  faltered  the  words, 
holding  out  imploring  hands. 

"Ay,  I'll  wager  you  did!"  Joyeuse  replied.  "Wished 
you  had  let  me  confess  you  then,  I'll  be  sworn!  He'd 
not  have  it,  good  sister,  when  I  offered  it,  because  it 
was  too  like  the  end — the  rope  and  the  tree!" 


250         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"My  lord!  My  lord!"  Fear  had  drivea  all  but  those 
two  words  from  the  man's  mouth. 

And  certainly  if  man  had  ever  ground  for  fear,  he  had. 
In  that  hut  of  wattle,  open  to  the  sky,  open  in  a  dozen 
places  to  the  curious  eye,  he  had  heard  the  voices,  the 
cries,  the  threats  of  his  pursuers.  The  first  that  en- 
tered must  see  him,  even  if  this  mad  lord  who  played 
with  his  life  as  lightly  as  he  had  in  the  beginning 
shielded  it  did  not  summon  them  to  take  him. 

Verily,  as  he  stood,  the  cloak  plucked  from  him,  with 
every  opening  in  the  hut's  walls  an  eye,  he  tasted  the 
bitterness  of  death.  And  in  the  amused  face  of  his 
protector,  in  the  girl's  cold  frowning  gaze,  what  of 
sympathy,  of  feeling,  of  pity?  Not  a  jot.  Not  a  sign. 
To  the  one  a  jest,  to  the  other  a  peril,  he  was  to  neither 
akin. 

As  it  seemed.  But  a  few  seconds  saw  a  change. 
The  Abbess,  in  the  first  flush  of  amazement,  had  come 
near  to  forgetting  her  part.  Under  other  circumstances 
the  trembling  wretch  before  her  might  have  claimed 
and  gained  her  sympathy,  for  he  was  one  of  Vlaye's 
men.  At  any  rate,  his  punishment  by  des  Ageaux 
would  have  added  one  more  to  the  list  of  the  Lieu- 
tenant's offences.  But  as  it  was  she  saw  in  him  only 
a  root,  so  long  as  he  lay  hidden,  of  utmost  peril  to  all 
her  party;  a  thing  to  be  cast  to  the  wolves,  if  she  and 
those  who  rode  in  the  chariot  with  her  were  to  escape. 
Her  first  feeling,  therefore — and  her  face  must  have 
betrayed  it  had  the  Duke  looked  at  her  at  the  first — 
had  been  one  of  fierce  repulsion.  Her  natural  impulse 
had  been  the  impulse  to  call  for  help  and  give  the  man 
up! 

But  in  time,  with  a  kind  of  shock  of  the  mind  that 


SAINT  AND  SINNER.  251 

turned  her  hot,  she  remembered.  The  Duke  was  not 
one  to  see  his  will  or  his  whim  thwarted  Hghtly.  And 
she,  the  saint,  v/hose  book  of  offices  still  lay  where  it 
had  fallen  at  her  feet,  she  to  lend  herself  to  harsh- 
ness! She  to  show  herself  void  of  pity!  Hurriedly 
she  forced  words  to  her  lips,  and  did  what  she  could 
to  match  her  face  to  their  meanmg. 

"My  lord,  blessed  are  the  merciful,"  she  murmured 
with  a  slight  but  irrepressible  shudder.  "You  who" — 
her  words  stuck  a  little — "have  been  spared  so  lately 
should  be  mercy  itself." 

"My  sister,"  the  Duke  said  slowly,  "you  are  more 
than  mercy!"  And  he  looked  at  her,  his  Hps  still 
smiling,  but  his  eyes  grave.  He  knew — was  ever 
Frenchman  who  did  not  know — the  value  of  his  own 
courage.  He  knew  that  to  act  as  a  mere  whim  led 
him  to  act  was  not  in  many,  where  life  was  in  question; 
and  to  see  a  woman  rise  thus  to  his  level,  ay,  and  rise 
in  a  moment  and  unasked,  touched  him  with  a  new  and 
ardent  admiration.     His  eyes,  as  he  looked,  grew  tender. 

"You,  too,  will  protect  him?"  he  said. 

"Who  am  I  that  I  should  do  otherwise?"  she  an- 
swered. She  spoke  the  words  so  well  she  seemed  to 
him  an  angel.    And  to  the  man 

The  man  fell  at  her  feet,  seized  the  hem  of  her  robe, 
kissed  it,  clung  to  it,  sobbed  broken  words  of  thanks 
over  it,  gave  way  to  transports  of  gratitude.  To  him, 
too,  she  was  an  angel.  And  while  she  reflected,  "I  can 
still  give  him  up  if  I  think  better  of  it,"  the  Duke 
watched  her  with  moist  eyes,  finding  that  holy  in  her 
case  which  in  his  own  had  been  but  a  jest,  the  freak  of 
a  man  in  love  with  danger,  and  proud  of  seeking  it  by 
every  road. 


252  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

Presently  "Now,  man,  to  your  cloak!"  he  said.  "And 
you,  sister,"  he  continued,  willing  to  hear  the  words 
again,  "you  are  sure  that  you  are  not  afraid?'' 

"I  am  no  more  afraid,"  she  replied,  with  downcast 
eyes  and  hands  crossed  upon  her  breast,  "than  I  was 
when  I  stayed  alone  with  you  by  the  river,  my  lord. 
There  was  no  other  who  could  stay." 

"Say  instead,  who  dared  to  stay." 

"There  is  no  other  now  who  can  shelter  him!" 

"Mon  Dieu!"  he  whispered. 

He  followed  her  with  his  eyes  after  that,  all  his  im- 
pressions confirmed;  and  as  it  was  rare  in  those  days 
to  find  the  good  also  the  beautiful,  the  imprint  made 
on  him  was  deep.  She  thrilled  him  as  no  woman  had 
thrilled  him  since  the  days  of  his  boyhood  and  his  first 
gallantries.  His  feeling  for  her  elevated  him,  purified 
him.  As  he  watched  her  moving  to  and  fro  in  his 
service,  a  great  content  stole  over  him.  Once,  when 
she  bent  to  his  couch  to  do  him  some  office,  he  con- 
trived to  touch  her  hand  with  his.  So  might  an  an- 
chorite have  touched  the  wood  of  the  true  Cross — ^so 
reverent,  so  humble,  so  full  of  adoration  and  worship 
was  the  touch. 

But  it  was  the  first  step — that  touch — and  she  knew 
itc  She  went  back  to  her  bench,  and  veiling  her  eyes 
with  her  long  lashes  that  he  might  not  read  the  triumph 
which  shone  in  them,  she  fell  again  to  her  devotions — 
but  with  content  in  her  breast.  A  little  more,  a  little 
while,  and  she  would  have  him  at  her  beck,  she  would 
have  him  on  his  knees :  and  then  it  should  not  be  long 
before  his  alliance  with  des  Ageaux  was  broken,  and 
his  lances  sent  home.  Not  long!  But  meanwhile  time 
pressed.    There  was  the  trouble;    time  pressed,  yet 


SAINT  AND  SINNER.  253 

she  dared  not  be  hasty.  He  was  no  simple  boy,  and 
one  false  move  might  open  his  eyes.  He  might  see 
that  she  was  no  angel,  but  of  the  same  clay  as  those 
of  whom  he  had  made  toys  all  his  hf e ! 

As  she  pondered,  the  near  prospect  of  success  set  the 
possibility  of  failure,  through  some  accident,  through 
some  mischance,  in  a  more  terrible  aspect.  She  hated 
the  trembling  fugitive  cowering  in  his  hiding-place 
behind  the  Duke's  bed;  she  wished  to  heaven  he  were 
in  des  Ageaux'  hands  again.  The  danger  of  a  mutiny 
on  his  account,  a  danger  that  despite  her  courage 
chilled  her,  would  then  be  at  an  end.  True,  such  a 
mutiny  menaced  the  Lieutenant  in  the  first  place  and 
the  Countess  in  the  second;  and  she  could  spare  them. 
But  she  could  not  be  sure  that  it  would  go  no  farther. 
She  could  not  be  sure  that  its  burning  breath  would  not 
lap  all  in  the  camp.  Had  she  been  sure — ^that  had 
been  another  matter.  And  behold,  as  she  thought  of 
it,  from  some  cell  of  the  brain  leapt  full-grown  a  plan; 
a  plan  wicked  enough,  cruel  enough,  terrible  enough,  to 
shock  even  her,  but  a  clever  plan  if  it  could  be  executed ! 

She  had  little  doubt  that  the  Lieutenant  would  over- 
come the  difficulty  of  the  morning  and  succeed  in  per- 
suading the  peasants  that  he  was  guiltless  of  the  escape 
of  the  prisoner.  Suppose  he  succeeded,  what  would 
happen  if  it  leaked  out  later  that  the  prisoner  had  been 
hidden  all  the  time  in  the  Lieutenant's  huts?  Par- 
ticularly if  it  leaked  out  at  a  time  when  the  Lieutenant 
and  the  Countess  lay  in  the  peasants'  power  in  the 
peasants'  camp?  And  for  choice  after  the  arrival  of 
the  first  batch  of  speai^  had  secured  the  rest  of  the 
party  from  danger?  What  would  happen  to  des 
Ageaux  and  the  Countess  in  that  event? 


254  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

It  was  a  black  thought.  The  beautiful  face  bent  over 
the  book  of  offices  grew  perceptibly  harder.  But  what 
better  fate  did  they  deserve  who  took  on  themselves  to 
mar  and  meddle?  They  who  incited  her  very  brothers, 
clownish  hobbledehoys,  and  her  mawkish  sister  to  rise 
up  against  her  and  against  him?  If  fault  there  was,  the 
fault  lay  with  those  who  threw  down  the  glove.  The 
Lieutenant  was  come  for  naught  else  but  her  lover's 
destruction:  and  if  he  fell  into  the  pit  that  he  digged 
for  another  he  could  blame  himself  only.  As  for  the 
girl,  the  white-faced  puling  child  whose  help  M.  de 
Vlaye's  enemies  were  driving  him  to  seek,  if  she,  with 
her  castles  and  her  wealth,  her  lands  and  horse  and 
foot,  could  not  protect  herself,  the  issue  was  her  affair! 
Of  a  surety  it  was  not  her  rival's! 

Odette  de  Villeneuve's  breath  came  a  little  quickly,  a 
fine  dew  stood  on  her  white  forehead.  Meantime  the 
Duke  watched  her  and  wondered  in  an  enthusiasm  of 
piety  what  prayer  it  was  that  so  stirred  that  angelic 
breast,  what  aspirations  for  the  good  of  her  sinning  and 
suffering  sisters  swelled  that  saintly  bosom!  A  vision 
of  an  ascetic  life  spent  by  her  side,  of  Fathers  read  page 
by  page  in  her  company,  of  the  good  and  the  noble  pur- 
sued with  her  under  cloistered  yews,  of  an  Order  such 
as  the  modem  Church  had  never  seen — such  a  vision 
wrapt  him  for  a  few  blissful  minutes  from  the  cold, 
lower  world  of  sense. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


FEARS. 


The  Abbess  was  not  present  that  evening  when  the 
hostages  transferred  themselves  to  the  peasants'  side  of 
the  camp.  Had  she  witnessed  the  scene  she  had  found, 
it  is  possible,  matter  for  reflection.  Hard  as  he  had 
struggled  against  the  surrender,  the  Lieutenant  strug- 
gled almost  as  hard,  now  it  was  inevitable,  to  put  a  good 
face  on  it.  But  his  easy  word  and  laugh  fell  flat  in  face 
of  a  crowd  so  watchful  and  so  ominously  silent  that  it 
was  useless  to  pretend  that  the  step  was  no  more  than 
a  change  from  a  hut  in  this  part  to  a  hut  in  that.  He 
who  knew  that  he  must,  in  the  morning,  face  the  men 
and  deny  them  their  prisoner — knew  this  too  well. 
But,  in  truth,  the  do"^Ticast  faces  of  his  troopers  and 
the  furtive  glances  of  the  Vicomte's  party  were  evidence 
that  the  matter  meant  much,  and  that  these,  also,  rec- 
ognised it;  nor  did  the  peasants,  who  fell  in  beside  the 
two  when  they  started,  and  accompanied  them  in  an 
ever  growing  mob,  seem  unaware  of  the  fact.  The 
movement  was  their  triumph;  a  sign  of  victory  to  the 
dullest  as  he  ran  and  stared,  and  ran  again.  A  section 
indeed  there  were  who  stood  aloof  and  eyed  the  thing 
askance:  but  two  of  the  Vicomte's  party,  who  recog- 
nised among  these  the  men  whom  the  Lieutenant  had 

255 


256  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

denounced  in  the  morning — the  tall,  light-eyed  fanat- 
ic and  the  dwarf — held  it  the  worst  sign  of  all;  and 
had  it  lain  in  their  power  they  would  even  at  that  late 
hour  have  called  back  their  friends. 

Those  two  were  Roger  and  his  younger  sister.  With 
what  feelings  they  saw  des  Ageaux  and  the  Countess 
ride  away  to  share  a  solitude  full  alike  of  danger  and 
of  alarm  may  be  more  easily  imagined  than  described. 
But  this  is  certain;  whatever  pangs  of  jealousy  gnawed 
at  Bonne's  heart  or  reddened  her  brother's  cheek,  neither 
forgot  the  bargain  they  had  made  on  the  hill-side,  or 
wished  their  rival  aught  but  a  safe  deliverance. 

As  it  was,  could  the  one  or  the  other,  by  the  lifting  of 
a  finger,  have  injured  the  person  who  stood  in  the  way, 
they  had  not  Hfted  it  or  desired  to  lift  it.  But — to  be  in 
her  place!  To  be  in  his  place!  To  share  that  sohtude 
and  that  peril!  To  know  that  round  them  lay  half  a 
thousand  savages,  ready  at  the  first  sign  of  treachery  to 
take  their  Hves,  and  yet  to  know  that  to  the  other  it  was 
bliss  to  be  there — this,  to  the  two  who  remained  in  the 
Vicomte's  huts  and  gave  their  fancy  rein,  seemed  happi- 
ness. Yet  were  they  sorely  anxious;  anxious  in  view  of 
the  abiding  risk  of  such  a  situation,  more  anxious  in  view 
of  the  crisis  that  must  come  when  the  peasants  learned 
that  the  prisoner  had  escaped.  Nevertheless,  they  did 
not  talk  of  this,  even  to  one  another. 

If  Roger  kept  vigil  that  night  his  sister  did  not  know 
it.  And  if  Bonne,  whose  secret  was  her  own,  started  and 
trembled  at  every  sound — and  such  a  camp  as  that  bred 
many  a  sound  and  some  alarming  ones — she  told  no  one. 
But  when  the  first  grey  light  fell  thin  on  the  basin  in  the 
hills,  disclosing  here  the  shapeless  mass  of  a  hut,  and 
there  only  the  dark  background  of  the  encircling  ridge, 


FEARS.  257 

her  pale  face,  as  she  peered  from  her  lodging,  confronted 
Roger's  as  he  paced  the  turf  outside.  The  same  thought, 
the  same  fear  was  in  the  mind  of  brother  and  sister,  and 
had  been  since  earhest  cock-crow;  and  for  Roger's  part 
he  was  not  slow  to  confess  it.  Presently  they  found  that 
there  was  another  whom  care  kept  waking.  A  moment 
and  the  Bat's  lank  form  loomed  through  the  mist.  He 
found  the  two  standing  side  by  side;  and  the  old  soldier's 
heart  warmed  to  them.     He  nodded  his  comprehension. 

"The  trouble  will  not  be  yet  awhile,"  he  said.  "He 
will  send  the  lady  back  before  he  tells  them.  I  doubt" 
— he  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  glance  at  Bonne — 
"if  she  has  had  a  bed  of  roses  this  night." 

Bonne  sighed  involuntarily.  "At  what  hour  do  you 
think  she  will  be  back?"  Roger  asked. 

"My  orders  are  to  send  six  riders  for  her  half  an  hour 
after  sunrise." 

"A  little  earlier  were  no  worse,"  Roger  returned,  his 
face  flushing  slightly  as  he  made  the  suggestion. 

"Nor  better,"  the  Bat  replied  drily.  "Orders  are 
given  to  be  obeyed,  young  sir." 

"And  the  rest  of  your  men?"  Bonne  asked  timidly. 
"They  will  go  to  support  M.  des  Ageaux  as  soon  as  she 
arrives,  I  suppose?" 

The  Bat  read  amiss  the  motive  that  underlay  her 
words.  "Have  no  fear,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "we 
shall  see  to  your  safety.  You  know  the  Lieutenant  little 
if  you  think  he  will  look  to  his  own  before  he  has  ensured 
that  of  others.  My  lady  the  Countess  once  back  with 
us,  not  a  man  is  to  stir  from  here.  And,  with  warning, 
and  the  bank  behind  us,  it  will  be  hard  if  with  a  score 
of  pikes  we  cannot  push  back  the  attack  of  such  a  crew 
as  this!'' 


258         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"But  you  do  not  mean,"  Bonne  cried,  her  eyes  alight, 
"that  you  are  going  to  leave  M.  des  Ageaux  alone — to 
face  those  savages?" 

"Those  are  my  orders,"  the  Bat  replied  gently;  for 
the  girl's  face,  scarlet  with  protest,  negatived  the  idea 
of  fear.  "And  orders  where  the  Lieutenant  commands, 
mademoiselle,  are  made  to  be  obeyed;  and  are  obeyed. 
Moreover,"  he'continued  seriously,  "in  this  case  they  are 
common  sense,  since  with  a  score  of  pikes  something 
may  be  done,  but  with  half  a  score  here,  and  half  a  score 
there  " — shrugging  his  shoulders — "  nothing !  Which  no 
one  knows  better  than  my  lord!" 

"But " 

"The  Lieutenant  allows  no  'buts,'"  the  old  soldier 
answered,  smiling  at  her  eagerness.  "Were  you  with 
him,  mademoiselle — were  you  under  his  orders,  I  mean — 
it  would  not  be  long  before  you  learned  that!" 

Poor  Bonne  was  silenced.  With  a  quivering  lip  she 
averted  her  face :  and  for  a  few  moments  no  one  spoke. 
Then,  "I  wish  M.  de  Joyeuse  were  on  his  feet,"  the  Bat 
said  thoughtfully.  "He  is  worth  a  dozen  men  in  such 
a  pinch  as  this!" 

"The  sun  is  up!"     This  from  Roger. 

"Ah!" 

"How  will  you  know  when  half  an  hour  is  past?" 

The  Bat  raised  his  eyebrows.  "I  can  guess  it  within 
two  or  three  minutes,"  he  said.  "There  is  no  hurry  for 
a  minute  or  two!" 

"No  hurry?"  Roger  retorted.  "But  the  Countess — 
won't  she  be  in  peril?" 

The  Bat  looked  curiously  at  him.  "For  the  matter 
of  that,"  he  said,  "we  are  all  in  peril.  And  may-be  we 
shall  be  in  greater  before  the  day  is  out.     We  must  take 


FEARS.  259 

the  rough  with  the  smooth,  young  sir.  However — per- 
haps you  would  like  to  make  one  to  fetch  her?" 

Roger  blushed.     "I  will  go,"  he  said. 

''Very  good,"  the  old  soldier  answered.  "I  don't 
know  that  it  is  against  orders.  For  you,  mademoiselle, 
I  fear  that  I  cannot  satisfy  you  so  easily.  Were  I  to 
send  you,"  he  continued  with  a  sly  smile,  "to  escort  my 
lord  back " 

"Could  you  not  go  yourself?"  Bonne  interrupted, 
her  face  reflecting  the  brightest  colours  of  Roger's 
blush. 

"I,  indeed?   No,  mademoiselle.    Orders!   Orders!" 

They  did  not  reply.  By  this  time  the  dense  grey 
mist,  forerunner  of  heat,  had  risen  and  discovered  the 
camp,  which  here  and  there  stirred  and  awoke.  The 
open  ground  about  the  rivulet,  which  formed  a  neu- 
tral space  between  the  peasants'  hovels  and  the  quar- 
ters assigned  to  the  Vicomte,  still  showed  untenanted, 
though  marred  and  poached  by  the  trampling  of  a  thou- 
sand feet.  But  about  the  fringe  of  the  huts  that,  low 
and  mean  as  the  shops  of  some  Oriental  bazaar,  clus- 
tered along  the  foot  of  the  bank,  figures  yawned  and 
stretched,  gazed  up  at  the  morning,  or  passed  bending 
under  infants,  to  fetch  water.  Everywhere  a  rising 
hum  told  of  renewed  life.  And  behind  the  Vicomte's 
quarters  the  brisk  jingle  of  bits  and  stirrups  announced 
that  the  troopers  were  saddling. 

In  those  days  of  filthy  streets,  and  founderous  sloughy 
roads,  the  great  went  ever  on  horseback,  if  it  were  but 
to  a  house  two  doors  distant.  To  ride  was  a  sign  of 
rank,  no  matter  how  short  the  journey.  Across  the 
street,  across  the  camp  it  was  the  same;  and  Bonne, 
as  she  watched  Roger  and  the  five  troopers  proceeding 


260  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

with  three  led  horses  across  the  open,  saw  nothing  strange 
in  the  arrangement. 

But  when  some  minutes  had  passed,  and  the  little 
troop  did  not  emerge  again  from  the  ruck  of  hovels 
which  had  swallowed  them,  Bonne  began  to  quake. 
Before  her  fears  had  time  to  take  shape,  however,  the 
riders  appeared;  and  the  anxiety  she  still  felt — for  she 
knew  that  des  Ageaux  was  not  with  them — gave  way 
for  a  moment  to  a  natural  if  jealous  curiosity.  How 
would  she  look,  how  would  she  carry  herself,  who  had 
but  this  moment  parted  from  him,  who  had  shared 
through  the  night  his  solitude  and  his  risk,  his  thoughts, 
perhaps,  and  his  ambitions?  Would  happiness  or  anx- 
iety or  triumph  be  uppermost  in  her  face? 

She  looked;  she  saw.  Her  gaze  left  no  shade  of 
colour,  no  tremor  of  eye  or  hp  unnoticed.  And  cer- 
tainly for  happiness  or  triumph  she  failed  to  find  a  trace 
of  either  in  the  Countess's  face.  The  young  girl,  pale 
and  depressed,  drooped  in  her  saddle,  drooped  still 
more  when  she  stood  on  her  feet.  No  blush,  no  smile 
betrayed  remembered  words  or  looks,  caresses  or  prom- 
ises ;  and  if  it  was  anxiety  that  clouded  her,  she  showed 
it  strangely.  For  when  she  had  alighted  from  her 
horse  she  did  not  wait.  Although,  as  her  feet  touched 
the  ground,  a  murmur  rose  from  the  distant  huts,  she 
did  not  heed  it;  but  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left, 
she  hastened  to  hide  herself  in  her  quarters. 

She  seemed  to  be  in  trouble,  and  Bonne,  melted,  would 
have  gone  to  her.  But  a  sound  stayed  the  elder  girl  at 
the  door.  The  murmur  in  the  peasants'  quarter  had 
risen  to  a  louder  note;  and  borne  on  this — as  treble  on 
base — came  to  the  ear  the  shrill  screech  that  tells  of 
fanaticism.     Such  a  sound  has  terrors  for  the  boldest; 


FEARS.  261 

for,  in-ational  itself,  it  deprives  others  of  reason.  It 
gathers  up  all  that  is  weak,  all  that  is  flighty,  all  that  is 
cruel,  even  all  that  is  cowardly,  and  hurls  the  whole, 
imbued  with  its  own  qualities,  against  whatever  excites 
its  rage.  Bonne,  who  had  never  heard  that  note  before, 
but  knew  by  intuition  its  danger,  stood  transfixed, 
staring  with  terrified  eyes  at  the  distant  huts.  She 
was  picturing  what  one  instant  of  time,  one  savage 
blow,  one  shot  at  hazard,  might  work  under  that 
bright  morning  sky!  She  saw  des  Ageaux  alone, 
hemmed  in,  surrounded  by  the  ignorant  crowd  which  the 
enthusiast  was  stirring  to  madness!  She  saw  their 
lowering  brows,  their  cruel  countenances,  their  small, 
fierce  eyes  under  matted  locks;  and  she  looked  trem- 
bling to  the  Bat,  who,  stationed  a  few  paces  from  her, 
was  also  listening  to  the  shrill  voice. 

Had  he  sworn  she  had  borne  it  better.  But  his  com- 
pressed lips  told  of  a  more  tense  emotion;  of  fidelity 
strained  to  the  utmost.  Even  this  iron  man  shook, 
then!  Even  he  to  whom  his  master's  orders  were 
heaven's  first  law  felt  anxiety!  She  could  bear  no 
more  in  silence. 

"Go!"  she  murmured.  "Oh,  go!  Surely  twenty 
men  might  ride  through  them!" 

He  did  not  look  at  her.  "Orders!"  he  muttered 
hoarsely.  "Orders!"  But  the  perspiration  stood  on 
his  brow. 

She  saw  that,  and  that  his  sinewy  hands  gripped 
nail  to  palm;  and  as  the  distant  roar  gathered  volume, 
and  the  note  of  peril  in  it  grew  more  acute,  "Oh,  go!" 
she  cried,  holding  out  her  hands  to  him.  "Go,  Roger! 
Some  one!"  wildly.  "Will  you  let  them  tear  him  limb 
from  limb!" 


262  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE 

Still  "Orders!  Orders!"  the  Bat  muttered.  And 
though  his  eyes  flickered  an  instant  in  the  direction  of 
the  waiting  troopers,  he  set  his  teeth.  And  then  in  a 
flash,  in  a  second,  the  roar  died  down  and  was  followed 
by  silence. 

Silence;  no  one  moved,  no  one  spoke.  As  if  fas- 
cinated every  eye  remained  glued  to  the  low,  irregular 
line  of  huts  that  hid  from  sight  the  inner  part  of  the 
peasants'  camp.  What  had  happened,  what  was  pass- 
ing there?  On  the  earthen  ramparts  high  overhead  were 
men,  Charles  among  them,  who  could  see,  and  must 
know;  but  so  taken  up  were  the  group  below,  from 
Bonne  to  the  troopers,  in  looking  for  what  was  to  come, 
that  no  one  diverted  eye  or  thought  to  these  men  who 
knew.  And  though  either  the  abrupt  cessation  of  sound, 
or  the  subtle  excitement  in  the  air,  drew  the  Abbess  at 
this  moment  from  the  Duke's  hut,  no  one  noted  her  ap- 
pearance, or  the  Duke's  pale  eager  face  peering  over  her 
shoulder.  What  had  happened?  What  had  happened 
behind  the  line  of  hovels,  under  the  morning  sunshine 
that  filled  the  camp  and  rendered  only  more  grim  the 
fear,  the  suspense,  the  tragedy  that  darkened  all? 

Something  more  than  a  minute  they  spent  in  that 
absorbed  gazing.  Then  a  deep  blush  dyed  Bonne's 
cheeks.  The  Bat,  who  had  not  sworn,  swore.  The 
Duke  laughed  softly.  The  troopers,  if  their  officer  had 
not  raised  his  hand  to  check  them,  would  have  cheered. 
Des  Ageaux  had  shown  himself  in  one  of  the  openings 
that  pierced  the  peasants'  town.  He  was  on  horse- 
back, giving  directions,  with  gestures  on  this  side  and 
that.  A  score  of  naked  urchins  ran  before  him,  gazing 
up  at  him;  and  a  couple  of  men  at  his  bridle  were  tak- 
ing orders  from  him. 


FEARS.  263 

He  was  safe,  he  had  conquered.  And  Bonne,  uncer- 
tain what  she  had  said  in  her  anxiety,  but  certain  that 
she  had  said  too  much,  cast  a  shamed  look  at  the  Bat. 
Fortunately  his  eye  was  on  the  troopers;  and  it  was 
not  his  look  but  her  sister's  smile  which  drove  the  girl 
from  the  scene.  She  remembered  the  Countess:  she 
bethought  her  that,  in  the  solitude  of  her  hut,  the  child 
might  be  suffering.  Bonne  hastened  to  her,  with  the 
less  scruple  as  the  two  shared  a  hut. 

The  impulse  that  moved  her  was  wholly  generous. 
Yet  when  her  hasty  entrance  surprised  the  young  girl 
in  the  act  of  rising  from  her  knees,  there  entered  into 
the  embarrassment  which  checked  her  one  gleam  of 
triumph.  While  the  other  had  prayed  for  her  lover, 
she  had  acted.     She  had  acted! 

The  next  moment  she  quelled  the  mean  thought. 
The  girl  before  her  looked  so  wan,  so  miserable,  so 
forlorn,  that  it  was  impossible  to  think  of  her  hardly, 
or  judge  her  strictly.  "I  am  afraid  that  I  scared  you," 
Bonne  said,  and  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "But  all  is 
well,  I  bring  you  good  news.  He  is  safe!  You  can 
see  him  if  you  look  from  the  door  of  the  hut." 

She  thought  that  the  child  would  spring  to  the  door 
and  feast  her  eyes  on  the  happy  assurance  of  his  safety. 
But  the  young  Countess  did  not  move.  She  stared  at 
Bonne  as  if  she  had  a  difficulty  in  taking  in  the  mean- 
ing of  her  words.  "Safe?"  she  stammered.  "Who  is 
safe?" 

"Who?"  Bonne  ejaculated. 

The  young  girl  passed  her  hand  over  her  brow.  "I 
am  very  sorry,"  she  replied  humbly.  "I  did  not  under- 
stand.    You  said  that  some  one  was  safe?" 

"M.  des  Ageaux,  of  course!" 


264  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Of  course  1    I  am  very  glad." 

"Glad?"  Bonne  repeated,  with  indignation  she  could 
not  control.     "Glad?     Only  that?" 

The  girl,  her  lip  trembling,  her  face  working,  cast  a 
frightened  look  at  her,  and  then  with  a  piteous  gesture, 
as  if  she  could  no  longer  control  herself,  she  turned  from 
her  and  burst  into  tears. 

Bonne  stared  What  did  this  mean?  Relief?  Joy? 
The  relaxation  of  nerves  too  tightly  strained?  No. 
She  should  have  thought  of  it  before.  It  was  not 
likely,  it  was  not  possible  that  this  child  had  already 
conceived  for  des  Ageaux  such  an  affection  as  casts 
out  fear.  It  was  not  she,  but  he,  who  had  to  gain  by 
the  marriage;  and  prepared  as  the  Countess  might  be 
to  look  favourably  on  liis  suit,  ready  as  she  might  be 
to  give  her  heart,  she  had  not  yet  given  it. 

"You  are  overwrought!"  Bonne  said,  to  soothe  her. 
"You  have  been  frightened." 

"Frightened!"  the  girl  replied  through  her  sobs.  "I 
shall  die — if  I  have  to  go  through  it  again!  And  I 
have  to  go  through  it,  I  must  go  through  it.  And  I 
shall  die!  Oh,  the  night  I  have  spent  listening  and 
waiting  and" — she  cowered  away,  with  a  stifled  scream. 
"What  was  that?"  She  stared  at  the  door,  her  eyes 
wild  with  terror.  "What  was  that?"  she  repeated, 
seizing  Bonne,  and  clinging  to  her. 

"Nothing!  Nothing!"  Bonne  answered  gently,  see- 
ing that  the  girl  was  thoroughly  shaken  and  unnerved. 
"It  was  only  a  horse  neighing." 

The  Countess  controlled  her  sobs,  but  her  scared  eyes 
and  white  face  revealed  the  impression  which  the  sus- 
pense of  the  night  had  made  on  one  not  bold  by  nature, 
and  only  supported  by  the  pride  of  rank.     "A  horse 


FEARS.  265 

neighing?"  she  repeated.  "Was  it  only  that?  I 
thought — oh!  if  you  knew  what  it  was  to  hear  them 
creeping  and  crawhng,  and  rustling  and  whispering 
every  hour  of  the  night!  To  fancy  them  coming,  and 
to  sit  up  gasping!  And  then  to  lie  down  again  and 
wait  and  v/ait,  expecting  to  feel  their  hands  on  your 
throat!  Ah,  I  tell  you" — ^she  hid  her  face  on  Bonne's 
shoulder  and  clasped  her  to  her  passionately — ''every 
minute  was  an  hour,  and  every  hour  a  day ! ' ' 

Bonne  held  her  to  her  full  of  pity.  And  presently, 
"But  he  was  near  you?"  she  ventured.  "Did  not  his — 
his  neighbourhood " 

"The  Lieutenant's?" 

"Yes.  Did  not  that" — Bonne  spoke  with  averted 
eyes :  she  would  know  for  certain  now  if  the  child  loved 
him! — "did  not  that  make  you  feel  safer?" 

"One  man!"  the  Countess's  voice  rang  querulous. 
"What  could  one  man  do?  What  could  he  have  done 
if  they  had  come?  Besides  they  v/ould  have  killed  him 
first.  I  did  not  think  of  him.  I  thought  of  myself. 
Of  my  throat!"  She  clasped  it  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment of  her  two  hands — it  was  white  and  very  slender. 
"I  thought  of  that,  and  the  knife,  and  how  it  would 
feel — all  night!  All  night,  do  you  understand?  And  I 
could  have  screamed!  I  could  have  screamed  every 
minute.     I  wonder  I  did  not." 

Bonne  saw  that  the  child  had  gone  to  the  ordeal,  and 
passed  through  it,  in  the  face  of  a  terror  that  would  have 
turned  brave  men.  And  she  felt  no  contempt  for  her. 
She  saw  indeed  that  the  child  did  not  love;  for  love,  as 
Bonne's  maiden  fancy  painted  it,  was  an  all-powerful 
impervious  armour.  She  was  sure  that  in  the  other's 
place  she  would  have  known  fear,  but  it  would  have 


266  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

been  fear  on  his  account,  not  on  her  own.  She  might 
have  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  the  steel,  but  it  would 
have  been  of  the  steel  at  his  breast.  Whereas  the 
Countess — no,  the  Countess  did  not  love. 

"And  I  must  go  again!  I  must  go  again!"  the  child 
wailed,  in  the  same  abandonment  of  terror.  "Oh,  how 
shall  I  do  it?    How  shall  I  do  it?" 

The  cry  went  to  Bonne's  heart.  "You  shall  not  do 
it,"  she  said.  "If  you  feel  about  it  hke  this,  you  shall 
not  do  it.     It  is  not  right  nor  fit." 

"But  I  cannot  refuse!"  the  Countess  shook  violently 
as  she  said  it.  "  I  dare  not  refuse.  Afraid  and  a  Roche- 
chouart!  A  Rochechouart  and  a  coward!  No,  I  must 
go.     I  must  die  of  fear  there;  or  of  shame  here." 

"Perhaps  it  may  not  be  necessary,"  Bonne  mur- 
mured. 

"No?  Why,  even  if  my  men  come  I  must  go!  If 
they  come  to-day  I  must  still  go  to-night.  And  lie 
trembling,  and  starting,  and  dying  a  death  at  every 
sound!" 

"But  perhaps " 

"Don't — don't!"  the  Countess  cried,  moving  fever- 
ishly in  her  arms.  "And,  ah,  God,  I  was  cold  a  mo- 
ment ago,  and  now  I  am  hot!  Oh,  I  am  so  hot!  So 
hot!  Let  me  go."  Her  parched  lips  and  bright  eyes 
told  of  the  fever  of  fear  that  ran  through  her  veins. 

But  Bonne  still  held  her. 

"It  may  not  be  necessary,"  she  murmured.  "Tell 
me,  did  you  see  M.  des  Ageaux — after  you  went  from 
here  last  night?" 

"See  him?"  querulously.  "No!  He  has  his  hut  and 
I  mine.     I  see  no  one!     No  one!" 

"And  he  does  not  come  and  talk  to  vou?" 


FEARS.  267 

"Talk?    No.     Talk?    You  do  not  know  what  it  is 
like.     I  am  alone,  I  tell  you,  alone!" 

"Then  if  I  were  to  take  your  place  he  would  not  find 
it  out?" 

The  Countess  started  violently — and  then  was  still. 
"Take  my  place?"  she  echoed  in  a  different  tone.     "In 
their  camp,  do  you  mean?" 
"Yes." 

"But  you  would  not,"   the  other  retorted.     "You 
would  not."     Then  before  Bonne  could  answer,  "What 
do  you  mean?    Do  you  mean  anything?''  she  cried. 
"Do  you  mean  you  would  go?" 
"Yes." 

"In  my  place?" 

"If  you  will  let  me,"  Bonne  replied.  She  flushed  a 
little,  conscience  telling  her  that  it  was  not  entirely,  not 
quite  entirely  for  the  other's  sake  that  she  was  willing 
to  do  this.  "If  you  will  let  me  I  will  go,"  she  con- 
tinued. "I  am  bigger  than  you,  but  I  can  stoop,  and  in 
a  riding-cloak  and  hood  I  think  I  can  pass  for  you. 
And  it  will  be  dusk  too.  I  am  sure  I  can  pass  for 
you." 

The  Countess  shivered.  The  boon  was  so  great,  the 
gift  so  tremendous,  if  she  could  accept  it!  But  she  was 
Rochechouart.  What  would  men  say  if  they  discov- 
ered that  she  had  not  gone,  that  she  had  let  another 
take  her  place  and  run  her  risk?  She  pondered  with 
parted  lips.     If  it  might  be ! 

"You  are  not  fit  to  go,"  Bonne  continued.  "You 
will  faint  or  fall.     You  are  ill  now." 

"But  they  will  find  out!"  the  Countess  wailed,  hiding 
her  face  on  Bonne's  shoulder.     "They  will  find  out!" 
"They  will  not  find  out,"   Bonne  replied  firmly. 


268  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"And  I — why  should  I  not  go?  You  have  done  one 
night.     I  will  do  one." 

"Oh,  if  you  would!  But  \^ill  you — not  be  afraid?" 
The  Countess's  eyes  were  full  of  longing.  If  only  she 
could  accept  with  honour! 

"I  shall  not  be  afraid/'  Bonne  answered  confidently. 
"And  no  one  need  know,  no  one  shall  know.  M.  des 
Ageaux  does  not  talk  to  you?'.' 

"No.  But  if  it  be  found  out,  everybody — ah,  I  shall 
die  of  shame!  Your  brother,  Roger,  too — and  every- 
body!" 

"No  one  shall  know,"  Bonne  answered  stoutly.  "No 
one.  Besides,  you  have  been  once.  It  is  not  as  if  you 
had  not  been!" 

And  the  child,  with  the  memory  of  the  night  pressing 
upon  her,  jumped  at  that.  "Then  I  shall  go  to-mor- 
row night,"  she  said.     "I  shall  go  to-morrow  night." 

Bonne  was  clear  that  she  was  not  fit  to  go  again.  But 
she  let  that  be  for  the  moment.  "That  shall  be  as  you 
wish,"  she  answered  comfortably.  "We  will  talk  about 
that  to-morrow.  For  to-night  it  is  settled.  And  now 
you  must  try  if  you  cannot  go  to  sleep.  If  you  do  not 
sleep  you  will  be  ill." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

TO   DO   OR   NOT   TO   DO? 

To  do  or  not  to  do?  How  many  a  one  has  turned 
the  question  in  his  mind;  this  one  in  the  soHtude  of 
his  locked  room,  seated  with  frowning  face  and  eyes 
fixed  on  nothingness;  that  one  amid  the  babble  of 
voices  and  laughter,  masking  anxious  thought  under 
set  smiles.  How  many  a  one  has  viewed  the  act  she 
meditated  this  way  and  that,  askance  and  across,  in 
the  hope  of  making  the  worse  appear  the  better,  and 
so  of  doing  her  pleasure  with  a  light  heart.  Others 
again,  trampling  the  scruple  under  foot,  have  none  the 
less  hesitated,  counting  the  cost  and  striving  to  view 
dispassionately — with  eyes  that,  the  thing  done,  will 
never  see  it  in  that  light  again — how  it  will  be  with 
them  afterwards,  how  much  better  outwardly,  how 
much  worse  inwardly,  and  so  to  strike  a  balance  for  or 
against — to  do  or  not  to  do.  And  some  with  burning 
eyes,  and  minds  unswervingly  bent  on  the  thing  they 
desire  have  yet  felt  hands  pluck  at  them,  and  some- 
thing— be  it  God  or  the  last  instinct  of  good — whisper- 
ing them  to  pause — to  pause,  and  not  to  do! 

The  Abbess  pondered,  while  the  Duke,  reclining  in 
the  opening  of  his  hut,  from  which  the  screen  had  been 
drawn  back  that  he  might  enjoy  the  air,  had  no  more 

269 


270  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

accurate  notion  of  her  thoughts  than  had  the  Lieuten- 
ant's dog  sleeping  a  few  paces  away.  The  missal  had 
fallen  from  her  hands  and  lay  in  her  lap.  Her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  green  slope  before  her  betrayed  naught 
that  was  not  dove-like;  while  the  profound  stillness  of 
her  form  which  permitted  the  Duke  to  gaze  at  will 
breathed  only  the  peace  of  the  cloister  and  the  altar, 
the  peace  that  no  change  of  outward  things  can  long 
disturb.  Or  so  the  Duke  fancied ;  and  eyeing  her  with 
secret  rapture,  felt  himself  uplifted  in  her  presence. 
He  felt  that  here  was  a  being  congenial  with  his  belter 
self,  and  a  beauty  as  far  above  the  beauty  to  which  he 
had  been  a  slave  all  his  life  as  his  higher  moods  rose 
above  his  worst  excesses. 

He  had  gained  strength  in  the  three  days  which  had 
elapsed  since  his  arrival  in  the  camp.  He  could  now 
sit  up  for  a  short  time  and  even  stand,  though  giddily 
and  with  precaution.  Nor  were  these  the  only  changes 
which  the  short  interval  had  produced.  The  Countess's 
spears,  to  the  number  of  thirty,  were  here,  and  their 
presence  augmented  the  safety  of  the  Vicomte's  party. 
But  indirectly,  in  so  far  as  it  fed  the  peasants'  sus- 
picions, it  had  a  contrary  effect.  The  Crocans  sub- 
mitted indeed  to  be  drilled,  sometimes  by  the  Bat, 
sometimes  by  his  master;  and  reasonable  orders  were 
not  openly  disobeyed.  But  the  fear  of  treachery  which 
a  life-time  of  ill-usage  had  instilled  was  deepened  by 
the  presence  of  the  Countess's  men.  The  slightest 
movements  on  cles  Ageaux'  part  were  scanned  with 
jealousy.  If  he  conferred  too  long  with  the  Ville- 
neuves  or  the  Countess  men  exchanged  black  looks, 
or  muttered  in  their  beards.  If  he  strayed  a  hundred 
paces  down  the  valley  a  score  were  at  his  heels.     Nor 


TO  DO  OR  DOT  TO  DO?  271 

were  there  wanting  those  who,  moving  secretly  between 
the  camp  and  the  savage  horde  upon  the  hill — the  Old 
Crocans,  as  they  were  called — kept  these  apprised  of 
their  doubts  and  fears. 

To  eyes  that  could  see,  the  position  was  critical,  even 
dangerous.  Nor  was  it  rendered  more  easy  by  a  feat 
of  M.  de  Vlaye's  men,  who,  reconnoitring  up  to  the 
gates  one  evening,  cut  off  a  dozen  peasants.  The 
mornmg  light  discovered  the  bocUes  of  six  of  these 
hanged  on  a  tree  below  the  Old  Crocans'  station,  and 
well  within  view  from  the  ridge  about  the  camp.  That 
the  disaster  might  not  have  occuiTed  had  des  Ageaux 
been  m  his  quarters,  instead  of  being  a  virtual  prisoner, 
went  for  nothing.  He  bore  the  blame,  some  even 
thought  him  pri\'y  to  the  matter.  From  that  hour 
the  gloom  grew  deeper.  Eveiywhere,  and  at  all  times, 
the  more  fanatical  or  the  more  suspicious  drew  to- 
gether in  corners,  and  while  simpler  clowns  cursed  low 
or  muttered  of  treachery,  darker  spirits  whispered 
devilish  plans.  Those  who  had  their  eyes  open  noted 
the  more  frequent  presence  of  the  Old  Crocans,  who 
wandered  by  twos  and  threes  through  the  camp;  and 
though  these,  when  des  Ageaux'  eye  fell  on  them, 
fawned  and  cringed,  or  hastened  to  withdraw  them- 
selves, they  spat  when  his  back  was  turned,  and  with 
stealthy  gestures  they  gave  him  to  hideous  deaths. 

In  a  word,  fear  lilce  a  dark  presence  lay  upon  the 
camp;  and  to  add  to  the  prevailing  irritation,  the 
heat  was  great.  The  giant  earth- wall  which  permit- 
ted the  Lieutenant  to  mature  his  plans  and  await  his 
reinforcements  shut  out  the  evening  breezes.  Noon 
grilled  his  men  as  in  a  frying-pan;  all  night  the  air 
was  hot  and  heavy.     The  peasants  sighed  for  the  cool 


272  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

streams  of  Brantome  and  the  voices  of  the  frogs.  The 
troopers,  accustomed  to  lord  it  and  impatient  of  dis- 
comfort, were  quick  with  word  and  hand,  and  prone 
to  strike,  when  a  blow  was  as  dangerous  as  a  light 
behind  a  powder  screen.  Without  was  Vlaye,  within 
was  fear;  while,  like  ravens  waiting  for  the  carnage, 
the  horde  of  Old  Crocans  on  the  hill  looked  down  from 
their  filthy  ej'rie. 

No  one  knew  better  than  the  Abbess  that  the  least 
thing  might  serv^e  for  a  spark.  And  she  pondered. 
Not  for  an  hour  since  its  birth  had  the  plan  she  had 
imagined  been  out  of  her  mind;  and  still — there  was 
so  much  good  in  her,  so  much  truth — she  recoiled. 
The  two  whom  she  doomed,  if  she  acted,  were  her 
enemies;  and  yet  she  hesitated.  Her  own  safety,  her 
father's,  her  sister's,  the  safety  of  all,  those  two  ex- 
cepted, was  secured  by  the  Rochechouart  reinforce- 
ment. Only  her  enemies  would  perish,  and  perhaps 
the  poor  fool  whose  presence  she  must  disclose.  And 
yet  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind.  To  do  or  not 
to  do? 

It  might  suffice  to  detach  Joyeuse.  But  the  time 
was  short,  and  the  Duke's  opinion  of  her  high;  and 
she  shrank  from  risking  it  by  a  premature  move.  He 
had  placed  her  on  a  pinnacle  and  worshipped  her:  if 
she  descended  from  the  pinnacle  he  might  worship  no 
longer.  Meantime,  if  she  waited  until  his  troopers 
rode  in,  and  on  their  heels  a  second  levy  from  Roche- 
chouart, it  might  be  too  late  to  act,  too  late  to  detach 
him,  too  late  to  save  Vlaye.     To  do  or  not  to  do? 

A  dozen  paces  from  her,  old  Solomon  was  pouring 
garrulous  inventions  into  the  ear  of  the  Countess's 
steward;  who,  dull,  faithful  man,  took  all  for  granted, 


TO  DO  OR  NOT  TO  DO?  273 

and  gaped  more  widely  at  every  lie.  Insensibly  her 
mind  began  to  follow  and  take  in  the  sense  of  tneir 
words. 

"Six  on  one  tree!"  Solomon  was  saying,  in  the  con- 
temptuous tone  of  one  to  whom  Montfaucon  was  an 
every-day  affair.  ''  'Tis  nothing.  You  never  saw  the 
like  at  Rochechouart,  say  you?  Perhaps  not.  Your 
lady  is  merciful." 

"Three  I  have!" 

"And  who  were  they?"  Solomon  asked,  with  a  sniff 
of  contempt. 

"Cattle-stealers.  At  least  so  it  was  said.  But  the 
wife  of  one  came  dowm  next  day  and  put  it  on  another, 
and  it  was  complained  that  they  had  suffered  wrong- 
fully.    But  three  they  were." 

"Three?"  Solomon's  nose  rose  in  scorn.  "If  you 
had  seen  the  elm  at  Villeneuve  in  my  lord's  father's 
time!  They  were  as  acorns  on  an  oak.  Ay,  they 
were!    Fifteen  in  one  forenoon." 

"God  ha'  mercy  on  us!" 

"And  ten  more  when  he  had  dined!" 

"God  ha'  mercy  on  us!"  Fulbert  replied,  staring  in 
stricken  surprise.     "And  what  had  they  done?" 

"Done?"  Solomon  answered,  shrugging  his  shoulders 
after  a  careless  fashion.  "Just  displeased  him.  And 
why  should  he  not?"  he  continued,  bristling  up. 
"What  worse  could  they  do?  Was  he  not  lord  of 
Villeneuve?" 

And  she  was  making  a  scruple  of  two  lives.  Of  two 
lives  that  stood  in  ner  path!  Still — life  was  life.  But 
what  was  that  they  were  saying  now?  Hang  Vlaye? 
Hang — the  Captain  of  Vlaye? 

It  was  Solomon  had  the  word;    and  this  time  the 


274  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

astonishment  was  on  his  side.  ''What  is  that  you 
say?"    he  repeated.     "Hang  M.  de  Vlaye?" 

"And  why  for  not?"  the  steward  rephed  doggedly, 
his  face  red  with  passion,  his  dull  intelligence  sharp- 
ened by  his  lady's  wrongs.     "And  why  for  not?" 

Solomon  was  scandalised  by  the  mere  mention  of  it. 
Hang  like  any  clod  or  clov/n  a  man  who  had  been  a 
constant  visitor  at  his  master's  house!  "Oh,  but  he — 
you  don 't  hang  such  as  he ! "  he  retorted .  ' '  The  Captain 
of  Vlaye?    Tut,  tut!    You  are  a  fool!" 

"A  fool?    Not  I!    They  will  hang  him!" 

"Tut,  tut!" 

"Wait  until  he  speaks!"  Fulbert  replied,  nodding 
mysteriously  in  the  direction  of  the  Lieutenant,  who,  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  group,  was  watching  a  band 
of  peasants  at  their  drill.  "Wlien  he  speaks  'tis  the 
King  speaks.  And  when  the  King  speaks,  it  is  hang  a 
man  must,  whoever  he  be!" 

"Tut,  tut!" 

"Whoever  he  be!"  Fulbert  repeated  with  stolid 
obstinacy.  And  then,  "It  is  not  for  nothing,"  he 
added  with  a  menacing  gesture,  "that  a  man  stops 
the  Countess  of  Rochechouart  on  the  King's  road! 
No,  no!" 

Not  for  nothing?  No,  and  it  is  not  for  nothing,  the 
Abbess  cried  in  her  heart,  that  you  threaten  the  man  I 
love  with  the  death  of  a  dog !    Dogs  yourselves !    Dogs ! 

It  was  well  that  the  Duke  was  not  looking  at  her  at 
tnat  moment,  for  her  heaving  bosom,  her  glowing  eyes, 
the  rush  of  colour  to  her  face  all  betrayed  the  force  of 
her  pa-ssion.  Hang  him?  Hang  her  lover?  So  that 
was  what  they  were  saying,  thinking,  planning  behind 
her  back,  was  it !    Tliat  was  the  camp  talk !    That ! 


TO  DO  OR  NOT  TO  DO?  275 

She  could  have  borne  it  better  had  the  Lieutenant 
proclaimed  his  aim  aloud.  It  was  the  sedateness  of 
his  preparations,  the  slow  stealth  of  his  sap,  the  unswerv- 
ing calmness  of  his  approaches  at  which  her  soul  re- 
volted. The  ceaseless  drilling,  the  arming,  the  watch 
by  day  and  night,  all  the  life  about  her,  every  act,  every 
thought  had  her  lover's  ruin  for  their  aim,  his  death 
for  their  end!  A  loathing,  a  horror  seized  her.  She 
felt  a  net  closing  about  her,  a  net  that  enmeshed  her 
and  fettered  her,  and  threatened  to  hold  her  motion- 
less and  powerless,  while  they  worked  their  will  on 
him  before  her  eyes! 

But  she  could  still  break  the  net.  She  could  still 
act.  Two  lives?  What  were  two  lives,  lives  of  his 
enemies,  in  comparison  of  his  life?  At  the  thought  a 
spring  of  savage  passion  welled  up  in  her  heart,  and 
clouded  her  eyes.  The  die  was  cast.  It  remained 
only  to  do.     To  do! 

But  softly — softly.  As  she  rose,  having  as  yet  no 
formed  plan,  a  last  doubt  stayed  her.  It  was  not  a 
doubt  of  his  enemies'  intentions,  but  of  their  power.  He 
whose  words  had  opened  her  eyes  to  their  grim  purpose 
was  a  dullard,  almost  an  imbecile.  He  could  be  no 
judge  of  the  means  they  possessed,  or  of  their  chances 
of  success.  The  swarm  of  unkempt,  ill-armed  peas- 
ants, who  disgusted  her  eyes,  the  troop  of  spears,  who 
even  now  barely  sufficed  to  secure  the  safety  of  her 
party,  what  chance  hud  they  against  M.  de  Vlaye  and 
the  four  or  five  hundred  men-at-arms  who  for  years  had 
lorded  it  over  the  marches  of  the  provuice,  and  made 
themselves  the  terror  of  a  country-side?  Surely  a  small 
chance  if  it  deserved  the  name.  Surely  she  was  per- 
mittino;  a  shadow  to  frighten  her. 


276         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Something,"  the  Duke  murmured  near  her  ear, 
"has  interrupted  the  even  current  of  your  thoughts, 
mademoiselle.     What  is  it,  I  pray?" 

"I  feel  the  heat,"  she  answered,  holding  her  hand  to 
her  brow,  that  behind  its  shelter  she  might  recover  her 
composure.     "Do  not  you?" 

"It  is  like  an  oven,"  he  answered,  "within  these  earth- 
walls." 

"How  I  hate  them!"  she  cried,  unable  to  repress  the 
spirit  of  irritation. 

"Do  you?  Well,  so  do  I,"  he  replied.  "But within 
them — it  is  nowhere  cooler  than  here." 

"I  will  put  that  to  the  proof,  my  lord,"  she  returned 
with  a  smile.  And,  gliding  from  him,  in  spite  of  the 
effort  he  made  to  detain  her,  she  crossed  the  grass  to 
her  father.  Sinldng  on  the  sward  beside  his  stool,  she 
began  to  fan  herself. 

The  Vicomte  was  in  an  ill-humour  of  some  days' 
standing;  nor  without  reason.  Dragged,  will  he  nill  he, 
from  the  house  in  which  his  whim  had  been  law,  he 
found  himself  not  only  without  his  comforts,  but  a  cipher 
in  the  camp.  Not  once,  but  three  or  four  times  he  had 
let  his  judgment  be  known,  and  he  had  looked  to  see  it 
followed.  He  might  have  spoken  to  the  winds.  No 
one,  not  even  his  sons,  though  they  listened  respect- 
fully, took  heed  of  it.  It  followed  that  he  saw  himself 
exposed  to  dangers  against  which  he  was  not  allowed 
to  guard  himself,  and  to  a  catastrophe  which  he  must 
await  in  inaction;  while  all  he  possessed  stood  risked  on 
a  venture  that  for  him  had  neither  interest  nor  motive. 

In  such  a  position  a  man  of  easier  temper  and  less 
vanity  might  be  pardoned  if  he  complained.  For  the 
Vicomte,  fits  of  senile  rage  shook  him  two  or  three  times 


TO  DO  OU  NOT  TO  DO?  277 

a  day.  lie  learned  what  it  was  to  be  thwarted:  and 
if  he  hated  any  one  or  anything  more  than  the  filthy 
peasants  on  whom  his  breeding  taught  him  to  look 
with  loatliing,  it  was  the  man  with  whose  success  his 
safety  was  bound  up,  the  man  who  had  forced  him 
into  this  ignominious  position. 

Of  him  he  could  believe  no  good.  When  the  Abbess, 
after  fanning  herself  in  silence,  mentioned  the  arrival  of 
the  Countess's  troopers,  and  asked  him  if  he  thought 
that  the  Lieutenant  was  now  strong  enough  to  attack,  he 
derided  the  notion. 

"M.  de  Vlaye  will  blow  this  rabble  to  the  winds,"  he 
said,  wdth  a  contemptuous  gesture.  *'We  may  grill 
here  as  long  as  we  please,  but  the  moment  we  show 
ourselves  outside,  pouf!  It  will  be  over!  What  can  a 
handful  of  riders  do  against  five  hundred  men  as  good 
as  themselves?" 

"But  the  peasants?"  she  suggested,  willing  to  know 
the  worst.     "There  are  some  hundreds  of  them." 

"Food  for  steel!"  he  answered,  with  the  same  con- 
temptuous pantomime. 

"Then  you  think — we  were  wrong  to  come  here?" 

"I  think,  girl,  that  we  were  mad  to  come  here.  But 
not  so  mad,"  he  continued  spitefully,  "as  those  who 
brought  us!" 

"Yet  Charles  thinks  that  the  Governor  of  Perigord 
will  prevail." 

"Charles  had  his  own  neck  in  the  noose,"  the  Vicomte 
growled,  "and  was  glad  of  company.  Since  Coutras 
it  is  the  young  lead  the  old,  and  the  issue  you  will  see. 
Lieutenant  of  Perigord?  What  has  the  Lieutenant  of 
Perigord  or  any  other  governor  to  do  with  canaille  such 
as  this?" 


278  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

Odette  heaved  a  sigh  of  reUef  and  her  face  Hghtened. 
"It  will  be  better  so,"  she  said  softly.  "M.  de  Vlaye 
knows,  sir,  that  we  had  no  desire  to  hurt  him,  and  he 
will  not  reckon  it  against  us." 

The  Vicomte  fidgeted  in  his  stool.  "I  wish  I  could 
think  so,"  he  answered  with  a  groan.  "Curse  him! 
Who  is  more  to  blame?  If  he  had  left  the  Countess 
alone,  this  would  not  have  happened.  They  are  no 
better  one  than  the  other !  But  what  is  this?  Faugh!" 
And  he  spat  on  the  ground. 

There  was  excuse  for  his  disgust.  Across  the  open 
ground  a  group  of  men  were  making  their  way  in  the 
direction  of  the  Lieutenant's  quarters.  They  were  the 
same  men  who  had  met  him  at  the  entrance  on  his 
return  with  the  Abbess  and  Joyeuse:  nor  had  the  lapse 
of  four  or  five  days  lessened  the  foulness  of  their  aspect, 
or  robbed  them  of  the  slinking  yet  savage  bearing — as 
of  beasts  of  prey  half  tamed — which  bade  beware  of 
them.  They  shambled  forward  until  they  neared  des 
Ageaux,  who  was  writing  at  an  improvised  table  not 
far  from  the  Vicomte;  then  cringing  they  saluted  him. 
Their  eyes  squinting  this  way  and  that  from  under 
matted  locks — as  if  at  a  gesture  they  were  ready  to 
leap  back — added  to  their  beast-like  appearance. 

The  Lieutenant's  voice,  as  he  asked  the  men  with 
asperity  what  they  needed,  came  clearly  to  the  ears  of 
the  group  about  the  Vicomte.  But  the  Old  Crocans' 
answer,  expressed  at  length  in  a  patois  of  the  country, 
was  not  audible. 

"Foul  carrion!"  the  Vicomte  muttered.  "What  do 
they  here?"  while  the  Abbess  and  Bonne,  who  had 
joined  her,  contemplated  them  mth  eyes  of  shuddering 
dislike. 


TO  DO  OR  NOT  TO  DO?  279 

"What,  indeed?"  Bonne  muttered,  her  cheek  pale. 
She  seemed  to  be  unable  to  take  her  eyes  from  them. 
"They  frighten  me!  Oh,  I  hope  they  will  not  be 
suffered  to  remain  in  the  camp!" 

"Is  it  that  they  wish?"  the  Vicomte  asked. 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  Solomon  answered:  he  had  gone 
forward,  listened  awhile  and  returned.  "They  say  that 
eleven  more  of  their  people  were  sur^^rised  b}'  Vlaj^e's 
men  three  hours  ago,  and  cut  to  pieces.  This  is  the 
second  time  it  has  happened.  They  think  that  they 
are  no  longer  safe  on  the  hill,  and  wish  to  join  us." 

"God  forbid!"  Bonne  cried,  with  a  strange  insistence. 

The  Abbess  looked  at  her.  "Why  so  frightened?" 
she  said  contemptuously.  "One  might  suppose  you 
were  in  greater  danger  than  others,  girl!" 

Bonne  did  not  answer,  but  her  distended  e3^es  be- 
trayed the  impression  which  the  wretches'  appearance 
made  on  her.  Nor  when  Charles — who  was  seldom  off 
the  ridge  which  was  his  special  charge — remarked  that 
after  all  a  man  was  a  man,  and  they  had  not  too  many, 
could  she  refrain  from  a  word.  "But  not  those!"  she 
murmured.     "Not  those!" 

Charles,  who  in  these  days  saw  more  of  the  Bat  than 
of  any  one  else,  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  shall  be 
surprised  if  he  does  not  receive  them,"  he  answered. 
"They  are  vermin  and  may  give  us  trouble.  But  we 
must  run  the  risk.  If  we  are  to  succeed  we  must  run 
some  risks." 

Not  that  risk,  however,  it  appeared.  For  he  had 
scarcely  uttered  the  words  when  des  Ageaux  was  seen 
to  raise  his  hand,  and  point  with  stern  meaning  to  the 
entrance.  "No,"  he  said,  his  voice  high  and  clear. 
"Begone  to  your  own  and  look  to  yourselves!    You 


280  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

chose  to  go  your  own  way  and  a  bloody  one!  Now 
your  blood  be  on  your  own  heads!  Here  is  no  place 
for  you,  nor  will  I  cover  you!" 

"My  lord!"  one  cried  in  protest.  "My  lord,  hear 
us!" 

"No!"  the  Lieutenant  replied  harshly.  "You  had 
your  warning  and  did  not  heed  it!  M.  de  Villeneuve, 
when  he  came  to  you,  warned  you,  and  I  warned  you. 
It  was  your  own  will  to  withdraw  yourselves.  You 
would  have  naught  but  blood.  You  would  bum  and 
kill!  Now,  on  your  own  heads,"  he  concluded  with 
severity,  "be  your  blood!" 

They  would  have  protested  anew,  but  he  dismissed 
them  with  a  gesture  which  permitted  no  denial.  And 
sullenly,  with  stealthy  gestures  of  menace,  they  re- 
treated towards  the  entrance;  and  gabbling  more 
loudly  as  they  approached  it,  seemed  to  be  imprecat- 
ing vengeance  on  those  who  cast  them  out.  In  the 
gate  they  lingered  awhile,  turning  about  and  scolding 
the  man  on  guard.  Then  they  passed  out  of  sight, 
and  were  gone. 

As  the  last  of  them  disappeared  des  Ageaux,  who 
had  kept  a  vigilant  eye  on  their  retreat,  approached 
the  group  about  the  Vicomte.  The  old  man,  though 
he  approved  the  action,  could  not  refrain  from  giving 
his  temper  vent. 

"You  are  sure  that  you  can  do  without  them,"  he 
said,  with  a  sneer.  His  shaking  hand  betrayed  his  dis- 
like of  the  man  to  whom  he  spoke. 

"I  believe  I  can,"  the  Lieutenant  answered.  He 
spoke  with  unusual  gravity,  but  the  next  moment  a 
smile — smiles  had  been  rare  with  him  of  late — curved 
the  corners   of   his   mouth.     His   eyes   travelled  from 


TO  DO  OR  NOT  TO  DO?  281 

one  to  another,  and  in  a  low  voice,  but  one  that  betrayed 
his  relief,  "I  will  tell  you  why,  if  you  wish  to  know, 
M.  le  Vicomte." 

"Wliy?" 

Des  Ageaux'  smile  grew  broader,  but  his  tone  re- 
mained low.  "Because  I  have  news,"  he  returned. 
''And  it  is  good  news.  I  have  had  word  within  the 
last  hour  that  I  may  expect  M.  de  Joyeuse's  levies 
about  nightfall  to-morrow,  and  a  day  or  two  later  a 
reinforcement  beyond  my  hope — fifty  men-at-arms 
whom  the  Governor  of  Agen  has  lent  me,  and  fifty 
from  my  garrison  of  P^rigueux.  With  those  we  should 
have  enough — though  not  too  many." 

They  received  the  news  with  words  of  congratulation 
or  with  grunts  of  disdain,  according  as  each  felt  about 
it.  And  all  began  to  discuss  the  tidings,  though  still 
in  the  tone  of  caution  which  the  Lieutenant's  look 
enjoined.  One  only  was  silent,  and  with  averted  face 
saw  the  cup  of  respite  dashed  from  her  lips.  A  hundred 
men  beyond  those  looked  for !  Such  an  accession  must 
change  hope  to  certainty,  hazard  to  surety.  A  few  da^^s 
would  enable  the  Lieutenant  to  match  rider  for  rider 
with  Vlaye,  and  still  boast  a  reserve  of  four  or  five  hun- 
dred undisciplined  allies.  While  jubilant  voices  hummed 
in  her  ears,  and  those  whom  she  was  ready  to  kill 
because  they  hated  him  rejoiced,  the  Abbess  rose  slowly 
and,  detaching  herself  from  the  group,  walked  away. 

No  one  followed  her  even  with  the  eye ;  for  the  Duke, 
fatigued,  and  a  little  hurt  that  she  did  not  return,  had 
retired  into  his  quarters.  Nor  would  the  most  watch- 
ful have  learned  much  from  her  movements,  or,  unless 
jealous  beyond  the  ordinary,  have  found  aught  to  sus- 
pect in  what  she  did. 


282  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

She  strolled  very  slowly  along  the  foot  of  the  slope, 
as  if  in  pure  idleness  or  to  stretch  limbs  cramped  by 
over-long  sitting.  Presently  she  came  to  some  tethered 
horses,  and  stood  and  patted  them,  and  looked  them 
over;  nor  could  any  but  the  horses  tell — and  they 
could  not  speak — that  while  her  hand  was  on  them 
her  eyes  were  roving  the  camp.  Perhaps  she  found 
what  she  sought;  perhaps  it  was  chance  only  that 
guided  her  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  tall  young  man 
with  pale  eyes,  whose  violence  had  raised  him  to  a 
certain  leadership  among  the  peasants. 

It  must  have  been  chance,  for  when  she  reached  his 
neighbourhood  she  did  not  address  him.  She  stooped 
and — what  could  be  more  womanly  or  more  natural? 
— she  spoke  to  a  naked  child  that  rolled  on  the  tram- 
pled turf  within  arm's  length  of  him.  What  she  said — in 
French  or  patois,  or  that  infant  language  of  which  no 
woman's  tongue  is  ignorant — the  baby  could  not  say, 
for,  like  the  horses,  it  could  not  speak.  Yet  it  must  have 
found  something  unusual  in  her  face,  for  it  cowered 
from  her,  as  in  terror.  And  what  she  said  could  have 
no  interest  for  the  man  who  lounged  near,  though  he 
seemed  disturbed  by  it. 

She  toyed  with  the  shrinking  child  a  moment,  then 
turned  and  walked  slovdy  back  to  the  Vicomte's  quar- 
ters. Her  manner  was  careless,  but  her  face  was  pale. 
Na  wonder.  For  she  had  taken  a  step — and  she  knew 
it — which  she  could  never  retrace.  She  had  done  that 
which  she  could  not  undo.  Betv/een  her  and  Bonne 
and  Roger  and  Charles  was  a  gulf  henceforth,  though 
they  might  not  know  it.  And  the  Duke?  She  winced 
a  little,  recognising  more  plainly  than  before  how  far 
she  stood  below  the  notion  he  had  of  her. 


TO  DO  OR  NOT  TO  DO?  283 

Yet  she  felt  no  remorse.  On  the  contrary,  the  upper- 
most feehng  in  her  mind — and  it  ran  riot  there — was  a 
stormy  exultation.  They  who  had  dragged  her  at  their 
chariot  wheels  would  learn  that  in  forcing  her  to  take 
part  against  her  lover  they  had  made  the  most  fatal 
.of  mistakes.  They  triumphed  now.  They  counted  on 
sure  success  now.  They  thought  to  hang  him,  as  they 
would  hang  any  low-bred  thief !  Very  good !  Let  them 
wait  until  morning,  and  talk  then  of  hanging! 

Once  or  twice,  indeed,  in  the  afternoon  she  was  visited 
by  misgivings.  The  man  she  had  seen  was  a  mere 
savage;  he  might  not  have  understood.  Or  he  might 
betray  her,  though  that  could  hurt  her  little  since  no 
one  would  believe  him.  Or  the  peasants,  though 
wrought  to  fury,  might  recoil  at  the  last  like  the  cowards 
they  were! 

But  these  and  the  like  doubts  arose  not  from  com- 
punction, but  from  mistrust.  Compunction  was  to 
come  later,  when  evening  fell  and  from  the  door  of 
the  Duke's  quarters  she  viewed  the  scene,  now  familiar, 
of  the  hostages'  departure  in  the  dusk — saw  the  horses 
drawTi  up  and  the  two  whom  she  was  dooming  in  act 
to  mount.  It  was  then  that  a  sudden  horror  of  what 
she  was  about  seized  her — she  was  young,  a  mere  girl — 
and  she  rose  with  a  stifled  cry  from  her  stool.  It  v/as 
not  yet  too  late.  A  cry,  a  word  would  save  them. 
Would  save  them  still !  Impulsively  she  moved  a  pace 
towards  them,  intending — ay,  for  a  moment,  intending 
to  say  that  word. 

But  she  stopped.  A  word  would  save  them,  but — 
she  was  forgetting — it  w^ould  doom  her  lover!  And  on 
that  thought,  and  to  reinforce  it,  there  rose  before  her 
mind's  eye  the  pale  puling  features  of  the  Countess — 


284  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAl^E. 

her  rival!  Was  she  to  be  put  aside  for  a  thing  like 
that?  Was  it  to  such  a  half -formed  child  as  that  she 
must  surrender  her  lover?  She  pressed  her  hands 
together,  and,  returning  to  her  seat,  she  turned  it  about 
that  her  eyes  might  not  see  them  as  they  went  through 
the  dusk. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE   HEART   OF   CAIN. 


Seven  hours  had  passed. 

The  moon  had  just  dropped  below  the  narrow  horizon 
of  the  camp,  but  to  eyes  which  looked  up  from  the 
blackness  of  the  hollow  the  form  of  the  nearest  sentinel, 
erect  on  the  edge  of  the  cup,  showed  plain  against  the 
paler  background  of  sky.  The  hour  was  the  deadest 
of  the  night;  but,  as  the  stillest  night  has  its  noises, 
the  camp  was  not  without  noises.  Tlie  dull  sound  of 
horses  browsing,  the  breath  of  a  thousand  sleepers, 
the  low  whinny  of  a  mare,  or  the  muttered  word  of 
one  who  dreamed  heavily  and  spoke  in  his  dream, 
these  and  the  like  sounds  fed  a  murmurous  silence  that 
was  one  with  the  brooding  heaviness  of  a  June 
night. 

Odette  de  Villeneuve — the  ears  that  drank  in  the 
voices  of  the  slumbering  host  were  hers — stood  half- 
liidden  in  the  doorway  of  her  quarters  and  listened. 
The  inner  darkness  had  become  intolerable  to  her.  The 
wattled  walls,  though  they  were  ventilated  by  a  hundred 
crevices,  stifled  her.  Pent  behind  them  she  fancied  a 
hundred  things;  she  saw  on  the  curtain  of  blackness 
drawn  faces  and  staring  eyes;  she  made  of  the  faintest 
murmur  that  entered  now  a  roar  of  voices,  and  now  the 

285 


286  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

hoarse  beginnings  of  a  scream.  Outside,  with  the  cooler 
air  fanning  her  burning  face,  she  could  at  least  lay  hold 
on  reality.  She  was  no  longer  the  sport  and  plaything 
of  her  own  strained  senses.  She  could  at  least  be  sure 
that  nothing  was  happening,  that  nothing  had  happened 
— ^yet.  And  though  she  still  breathed  quickly  and 
crouched  like  a  fearful  thing  in  tne  doorway,  here  she 
could  call  hate  to  her  support,  she  could  reckon  her 
wrongs  and  think  of  her  lover,  and  persuade  herself  that 
this  was  but  a  nightmare  from  which  she  would  awake 
to  find  all  well  with  herself  and  with  him. 

If  only  the  thing  were  over  and  done!  Ah,  if  only 
it  were  done !  That  was  her  feeling.  If  only  the  thing 
were  done!  She  bent  her  ear  to  listen;  but  nothing 
stirred,  no  alarm  clove  the  night;  and  it  could  want 
little  of  morning.  She  fancied  that  the  air  struck 
colder,  laden  with  that  chill  which  comes  before  the 
dawn:  and  eastwards  she  thought  that  she  discerned 
the  first  faint  lightening  of  the  sky.  The  day  was  at 
hand  and  nothing  had  happened. 

She  could  not  say  on  the  instant  whether  she  was 
sorry  or  glad.  But  she  was  sure  that  she  would  be 
sorry  when  the  sun  rose  high  and  shone  on  her  enemy's 
triumph,  and  Charles  and  Roger  and  Bonne,  whom  she 
had  taught  herself  to  despise,  saw  their  choice  justified, 
and  the  side  they  had  supported  victorious.  The 
triumph  of  those  beneath  us  is  hard  to  bear;  and  at 
that  picture  the  Abbess's  face  grew  hard,  though  there 
was  no  one  to  see  it.  The  blood  throbbed  in  her  head 
as  she  thought  of  it;  throbbed  so  loudly  that  she 
questioned  the  reality  of  a  sound  that  a  moment  later 
forced  itself  upon  her  senses.  It  was  a  sound  not 
unlike  the  pulsing  of  the  blood;   not  terrible  nor  loud. 


THE  HEART  OF  CAIN.  287 

but  rhythmical,  such  as  the  tide  makes  when  it  rises 
slowly  but  irresistibly  to  fill  some  channel  left  bare  at 
the  ebb. 

What  was  it?  She  stood  arrested.  Was  it  only  the 
blood  surging  in  her  ears?  Or  was  it  the  silent  up- 
rising of  a  multitude  of  men,  each  from  the  place  where 
he  lay?  Or  was  it,  could  it  be  the  stealthy  march  of 
countless  feet  across  the  camp? 

It  might  be  that.  She  listened  more  intently,  stay- 
ing with  one  hand  the  beating  of  her  heart.  She  de- 
cided that  it  was  that. 

Thereon  it  was  all  she  could  do  to  resist  the  impulse 
to  give  the  alarm.  She  had  no  means  of  knowing  in 
which  direction  the  unseen  band  was'  moving.  She 
could  guess,  but  she  might  be  wrong;  and  in  that  case, 
at  any  moment  the  night  might  hurl  upon  her  a  hun- 
dred brutes  whose  first  victim  as  they  charged  through 
the  encampment  she  must  be.  She  fancied  that  the 
darkness  wavered;  and  here  and  there  bred  shifting 
forms.  She  fancied  that  the  dull  sound  was  drawing 
nearer  and  growing  louder.  And — a  scream  rose  in 
her  throat. 

She  choked  it  down.  An  instant  later  she  had  her 
reward,  if  that  was  a  reward  which  left  her  white  and 
shuddering — a  coward  clinging  for  support  to  the  frail 
wall  beside  her. 

It  was  a  shrill  scream  rending  the  night;  such  an 
one  as  had  distended  her  own  throat  an  instant  before 
— but  stifled  in  mid-utterance  in  a  fashion  horrible  and 
suggestive.  Upon  it  followed  a  fierce  outcry  in  several 
voices,  cut  short  two  seconds  later  with  the  same 
abruptness,  and  followed  bj^ — silence.  Then,  while  she 
clung  cold,  shivering,  half  fainting  to  the  wattle,  the 


288  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

darkness  gave  forth  again  that  dull  shuffling,  moving 
sound,  a  little  quickened  perhaps,  and  a  little  more 
apparent. 

This  time  it  caused  an  alarm.  Sharp  and  clear  came 
a  voice  from  the  ridge,  "What  goes  there?    Answer!" 

No  answer  was  given,  and  "Who  goes  there?"  cried 
a  voice  from  a  different  point,  and  then  "To  arms!" 
cried  a  third.  "To  arms!  To  arms!"  And  on  a  rising 
wave  of  hoarse  cries  the  camp  awoke. 

The  tall  form  of  the  Bat  seemed  to  start  up  within 
a  yard  of  the  Abbess.  He  seized  a  stick  that  hung 
beside  a  drum  on  a  post,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  hurried 
notes  of  the  Alert  pulsed  through  the  camp.  On  the 
instant  men  rose  from  the  earth  about  him;  while 
frightened  faces,  seen  by  the  rays  of  a  passing  light, 
looked  from  hut-doors,  and  the  cries  of  a  waiting- 
maid  struggling  in  hysterics  mingled  with  the  words 
of  command  that  brought  the  troopers  into  line  and 
manned  the  ground  in  front  of  the  Vicomte's  quarters. 
A  trooper  flew  up  the  sloping  rampart  to  learn  from 
the  sentry  what  he  had  seen,  and  was  back  as  quickly 
with  the  news  that  the  guards  knew  no  more  than  was 
known  below.  They  had  only  heard  a  suspicious  out- 
cry, and  following  on  it  sounds  which  suggested  the 
movement  of  a  body  of  men. 

The  Bat,  bringing  order  out  of  confusion — and  in  that 
well  aided  by  Roger,  though  the  lad's  heart  was  burst- 
ing with  fears  for  his  mistress — could  do  naught  at  the 
first  blush  but  secure  his  position.  But  when  he  had 
got  his  men  placed,  and  lanthorns  so  disposed  as  to 
advantage  them  and  hamper  an  attack,  he  turned 
sharply  on  the  man.  "Did  they  hear  my  lord's  voice?" 
he  asked. 


THE  HEART  OF  CAIN.  289 

"It  was  their  fancy.  Certainly  the  outcry  came  from 
that  part  of  the  camp.'.' 

"Then  out  on  them!"  Roger  exclaimed,  unable  to 
control  himself.  "Out  on  them.  To  saddle  and  let 
us  charge,  and  woe  betide  them  if  they  stand!" 

"Softly,  softly,"  the  Bat  said.  "Orders,  young  sir! 
Mine  are  to  stand  firm,  whatever  betides,  and  guard  the 
women!    And  that  I  shall  do  until  daylight.',' 

"Daylight?"  Roger  cried. 

"Which  is  not  half  an  hour  off!" 

"Half  an  hour!"  The  lad's  tone  rang  with  indigna- 
tion. "Are  you  a  man  and  ^vill  you  leave  a  woman 
at  their  mercy?"  He  was  white  with  rage  and  shak- 
ing. "Then  I  will  go  alone.  I  will  go  to  their  quarters 
— I,  alone!"  As  he  thought  of  the  girl  he  loved  and 
her  terrors  his  heart  was  too  big  for  his  breast. 

"And  throw  away  another  life?"  the  Bat  repUed 
sternly.     "For  shame!" 

"For  shame,  I?" 

"Ay,  you!  To  call  yourself  a  soldier  and  cry  fie  on 
orders!" 

He  would  have  added  more,  but  he  was  forestalled  by 
the  Vicomte.  In  his  high  petulant  tone  he  bade  his 
son  stand  for  a  fool.  "There  are  women  here,"  he  con- 
tinued, sensibly  enough,  "and  we  are  none  too  many 
to  guard  them,  as  we  are." 

"Ay,  but  she"  Roger  retorted,  trembling,  "is  alone 
there." 

"A  truce  to  this !"  tne  Bat  struck  in,  with  heat.  "  To 
your  post,  sir,  and  do  your  duty,  or  we  are  all  lost 
together.  Steady,  men,  steady!"  as  a  slight  move- 
ment of  the  troopers  at  the  breastwork  made  itself  felt 
rather  than  seen.     "Pikes  low!    Pikes  low!    What  is  it?" 


290  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

He  saw  then.  The  commotion  was  caused  by  the 
approach  of  a  group  of  men,  three  or  four  in  number, 
whose  neighbourhood  one  of  the  hghts  had  just  betrayed. 
"Who  comes  there?"  cried  the  leader  of  the  Countess's 
troopers,  who  was  in  charge  of  that  end  of  the  line. 
"Are  you  friends?" 

"Ay,  ay!    Friends!" 

If  so,  they  were  timorous  friends.  For  when  they 
were  bidden  to  advance  to  the  spot  where  the  Bat 
with  the  Vicomte  and  Roger  awaited  them,  their  alarm 
was  plain.  The  foremost  was  the  man  who  had  spoken 
for  the  peasants  at  the  debate  some  days  before.  But 
the  smith's  boldness  and  independence  were  gone;  he 
was  ashake  with  fear.  "I  have  bad  news,"  he  stam- 
mered.    "Bad  news,  my  lords!" 

"The  worse  for  some  one!"  the  Bat  answered  with  a 
grim  undernote  that  should  have  satisfied  even  Roger. 
As  he  spoke  he  raised  one  of  the  lights  from  the  ground, 
and  held  it  so  that  its  rays  fell  on  the  peasants'  faces. 
"Has  harm  happened  to  the  hostages?" 

"God  avert  it!  But  they  have  been  carried  off,"  the 
man  faltered  through  his  ragged  beard.  It  was  evident 
that  he  was  thoroughly  frightened. 

"Carried  off?" 

"Ay,  carried  off!" 

"By  whom?  By  whom,  rascal?"  The  Bat's  eyes 
glared  dangerously.  "By  Heaven,  if  you  have  had 
hand  or  finger  in  it "  he  added. 

"Should  I  be  here  if  I  had?"  the  man  answered, 
piteously  extending  his  open  hands. 

"I  know  not.  But  now  you  are  here,  you  will  stay 
here!  Surround  them!"  And  when  the  order  had 
been  carried  out,  "Now  speak,  or  your  skin  will  pay 


THE  HEART  OF  CAIN.  291 

for  it,"  the  Bat  continued.  "What  has  happened, 
spawn  of  the  dung-heap?" 

"Some  of  our  folk — God  knows  without  our  know- 
ledge"— the  smith  whined — "brought  in  a  party  of  the 
men  on  the  hill " 

"The  Old  Crocans  from  the  town?" 

"Ay!  And  they  seized  the — my  lord  and  the  lady — 
and  got  off  with  them!  As  God  sees  me,  they  were 
gone  before  we  were  awake!"  he  protested,  seeing  the 
threatening  blade  with  which  Roger  was  advancing  upon 
him. 

The  Lieutenant  held  the  lad  back.  "Very  good,"  he 
said.  "We  shall  follow  with  the  first  light.  If  a  hair 
of  their  heads  be  injured,  I  shall  hang  you  first,  and  the 
rest  of  you  by  batches  as  the  trees  will  bear!"  And 
with  a  black  and  terrible  look  the  Bat  swore  an  oath 
to  chill  the  blood.  The  leader  of  the  Countess's  men 
repeated  it  after  him,  word  for  word ;  and  Roger,  silent 
but  with  rage  in  his  eyes,  stood  shaking  between  them, 
his  blade  in  his  hand. 

The  Vicomte,  his  fears  for  the  safety  of  his  own  party 
allayed,  turned  to  see  who  were  present.  He  discov- 
ered his  eldest  daughter,  leaning  as  if  not  far  from 
fainting,  against  the  doorway  of  the  Duke's  quarters. 
"Courage,  girl,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  rebuke.  "We  are 
in  no  peril  ourselves,  and  should  set  an  example. 
Where  is  your  sister?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  the  Abbess  replied  shakily.  It  was 
being  borne  in  on  her  that  not  two  lives,  but  the  Hves  of 
many,  of  scores  and  of  hundreds,  might  pay  for  what  she 
had  done.  And  she  was  new  to  the  work.  "  I  have  not 
seen  her/'  she  repeated  with  greater  firmness,  as  she 
summoned  hate  to  her  support,  and  called  up  before 


292  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

her  fancy   the  Countess's   childish   attractions.     "She 
must  be  sleeping." 

"Sleeping?"  the  Vicomte  echoed  in  astonishment. 
He  was  going  to  add  more  when  another  took  the 
words  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  Wliat  Ls  that?"  It  was  Roger's  voice  fiercely  raised. 
"By  Heaven!    It  is  Fulbert." 

It  was  Fulbert.  As  the  men,  of  whom  some  were 
saddling — ^for  the  light  was  beginning  to  appear — 
pressed  forward  to  look,  the  steward  crawled  out  of  the 
gloom  about  the  brook,  and,  raismg  himself  on  one  hand, 
made  painful  efforts  to  speak.  He  looked  like  a  dead 
man  risen;  nor  did  the  uncertain  light  of  the  lanthorns 
take  from  the  horror  of  his  appearance.  Probably  he 
had  been  left  for  dead,  for  the  smashing  blow  of  some 
blunt  weapon  had  beaten  in  one  temple  and  flooded 
his  face  and  beard  with  blood.  The  Abbess,  faint  and 
sick,  appalled  by  this  first  sign  of  her  handiwork,  hid 
her  eyes. 

"  Follow !  Follow ! "  the  poor  creature  muttered,  sway- 
mg  as  he  strove  to  rise  to  his  feet.     "A  rescue!" 

"  With  the  first  light,"  the  Bat  answered  him.  "With 
the  first  light!    How  many  are  they?" 

But  he  only  muttered,  "Follow!  A  rescue!  A  res- 
cue!" and  repeated  those  words  in  such  a  tone  that 
it  was  plain  that  he  no  longer  understood  them,  but 
said  them  mechanically.  Perhaps  they  had  been  the 
last  he  had  uttered  before  he  was  struck  down. 

The  Bat  saw  how  it  was  with  him;  he  had  seen  men 
in  that  state  before.  "With  the  first  light!"  he  said, 
to  soothe  him.  "With  the  first  light  we  follow!"  Then 
turning  to  his  men  he  bade  them  carry  the  poor  fellow 
in  and  see  to  his  hurts. 


THE  HEART  OF  CAIN.  293 

Roger  sprang  forward,  eager  to  help.  And  they  were 
bearing  the  man  to  the  rear,  and  the  Ab])ess  had  taken 
heart  to  uncover  her  eyes,  while  still  averting  them, 
when  a  strange  sound  broke  from  her  lips — lips  blanched 
in  an  instant  to  the  colour  of  paper.  It  caught  the 
ear  of  the  Bat,  who  stood  nearest  to  her.  He  turned. 
The  Abbess,  with  arm  outstretched,  was  pointing  to 
the  door  of  the  Countess's  hut.  There,  visible,  though 
she  seemed  to  shrink  from  sight,  and  even  raised  her 
hand  in  deprecation,  stood  the  Countess  herself, 

"By  Heaven!"  the  Bat  cried.  And  he  stood.  WhUe 
Roger,  in  place  of  advancing,  gazed  on  her  as  on  a 
ghost. 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  no  sound  came.  And  for  the 
Abbess  she  had  as  easily  spoken  as  the  dead.  Her 
senses  tottered,  the  slim  figure  danced  before  her  eyes, 
the  voices  of  those  who  spoke  came  from  a  great  way 
off. 

It  was  the  Vicomte  who,  being  the  least  concerned, 
was  first  to  find  his  voice,  "Is  it  you.  Countess?"  he 
quavered. 

The  Countess  nodded.     She  could  not  speak. 

"But  how — how  have  you  escaped?" 

"Ay,  how?"  the  Bat  chimed  in  more  soberly.  He 
saw  that  it  was  no  phantom,  though  the  mystery 
seemed  none  the  less  for  that.  "How  come  you  here, 
Countess?  How — am  I  mad,  or  did  you  not  go  to 
their  quarters  at  sundown?" 

"No,"  she  whispered.  "I  did  not  go."  She  framed 
the  words  with  difficulty.  Between  shame  and  excite- 
ment she  seemed  ready  to  sink  into  the  earth, 

"No?  You  did  not?  Then  who — who  did  go?  Some 
one  went." 


294  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

She  made  a  vain  attempt  to  speak.  Then  command- 
ing herself — 

"Bonne  went — in  my  place,"  she  cried.  And  clap- 
ping her  hands  to  her  face  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief,  she 
leant,  weeping,  against  the  post  of  the  door. 

They  looked  at  one  another  and  began  to  under- 
stand, and  to  see.  And  one  had  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak,  when  a  strangled  cry  drew  all  eyes  to  the  Abbess, 
She  seemed  to  be  striving  to  put  something  from  her. 
Her  staring  eyes,  her  round  mouth  of  horror,  her 
waving  fingers  made  up  a  picture  of  terror  comparable 
only  to  one  of  those  masks  which  the  Greeks  used  in 
their  tragedies  of  fate.  A  moment  she  showed  thus, 
and  none  of  those  who  turned  eye  on  her  doubted 
that  they  were  looking  on  a  stress  of  passion  beside 
which  the  Countess's  grief  was  but  a  puny  thing. 
The  next  moment  she  fell  her  length  in  a  swoon. 

When  she  came  to  herself  an  hour  later  she  lay  for 
a  time  with  eyes  open  but  vacant,  eyes  wnich  saw  but 
conveyed  no  image  to  the  ailing  brain.  The  sun  was 
still  low.  Its  shafts  darting  through  the  interstices  in 
the  wall  of  the  hut  were  laden  with  a  million  dancing 
motes,  which  formed  a  shifting  veil  of  light  between 
her  eyes  and  the  roof.  She  seemed  to  have  been  gazing 
at  this  a  whole  ceon  when  the  first  conscious  thought 
pierced  her  mind,  and  she  asked  herself  where  she  was. 

Where?  Not  in  her  own  lodging,  nor  alone.  This 
was  borne  in  on  her.  For  on  one  side  of  her  couch 
crouched  one  of  her  women;  on  tlie  other  knelt  the 
Countess,  her  face  hidden.  In  the  dooi'\\^ay  behind  the 
head  of  the  bed,  and  so  beyond  the  range  of  her  vision, 
were  others;   the  low  drone  of  voices,  her  father's,  the 


THE  HEART  OF  CAIN.  295 

Duke's,  penetrated  one  by  one  to  her  senses  still  dulled 
by  the  shock  she  had  suffered.  Something  had  hap- 
pened then;  something  serious  to  her,  or  she  would 
not  lie  thus  surrounded  with  watchers  on  all  sides  of 
her  bed.     Had  she  been  ill? 

She  considered  this  silently,  and  little  by  little  began 
to  remember:  the  flight  to  the  camp,  the  camp  life, 
the  Duke's  hut  in  which  she  had  passed  most  of  her 
time  in  the  camp.  Yes,  she  was  in  the  Duke's  hut,  and 
that  was  his  voice.  She  was  lying  on  his  couch.  They 
had  been  besieged,  she  remembered.  Had  she  been 
wounded?  From  under  half-closed  lids  she  scrutinised 
the  two  women  beside  her.  The  one  she  knew.  The 
other  must  be  her  sister.  Yes,  her  sister  would  be  the 
first  to  come,  the  first  to  aid  her.  But  it  was  not  her 
sister.     It  was 

She  knew. 

She  called  on  God  and  lay  white  and  mute,  shaking 
violently,  but  with  closed  eyes.  The  women  rose  and 
looked  at  her,  and  suggested  remedies,  and  implored 
her  to  speak.  But  she  lay  cold  and  dumb,  and  only 
from  time  to  time  by  violent  fits  of  trembling  shov/ed 
that  she  was  alive.  What  had  she  done?  What  had 
she  done? 

The  women  could  make  nothing  of  her.  Nor  when 
they  had  tried  their  utmost  could  her  father,  though  he 
came  and  chid  her  querulously ;  his  tone  the  sharper  for 
the  remorse  he  was  feeling.  He  had  had  an  hour  to 
think;  and  durmg  that  hour  the  obedience  which  his 
less  cherished  daughter  had  ever  paid  him,  her  cheer- 
ful care  of  him,  her  patience  with  him,  had  risen  before 
liini;  and,  alas,  with  these  thoughts,  the  memorv  of 
many  an  unkind  word  and  act,  many  a.  taunt  flung  at 


296  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

her  as  lightly  as  at  the  dog  that  cumbered  the  hearth. 
To  balance  the  account,  and  a  little  perhaps  because 
the  way  in  which  Odette  took  it  was  an  added  reproach 
to  him,  he  spoke  harshly  to  the  Abbess — such  is  human 
nature!  But,  for  all  the  effect  his  words  had  on  her, 
he  might  have  addressed  a  stone.  That  which  she  had 
done  thundered  too  loudly  in  her  ears  for  another's 
voice  to  enter. 

She  had  not  loved  her  sister  over  dearly,  and  into 
such  love  as  she  had  given  contempt  had  entered  largely. 
But  she  was  her  sister.  She  was  her  sister!  Memories 
of  childish  days  in  the  garden  at  Villeneuve,  when  Bonne 
had  clung  to  her  hand  and  run  beside  her,  and  prattled, 
and  played,  and  quarrelled,  and  yielded  to  her — being 
always  the  gentler — rose  in  her  mind;  and  memories 
of  little  words  and  acts,  and  of  Bonne's  face  on  this 
occasion  and  on  that!  And  dry-eyed  she  shook  with 
horror  of  the  thing  she  had  done.  Her  sister!  She 
had  done  her  sister  to  death  more  cruelly,  more  foully, 
more  barbarously,  than  if  she  had  struck  her  lifeless  at 
her  feet. 

An  age,  it  seemed  to  her,  she  lay  in  this  state,  cold, 
paralysed,  without  hope.  Then  a  word  caught  her  ear 
and  fixed  her  attention. 

"They  nave  been  away  two  hours,"  Joyeuse  muttered, 
speaking  low  to  the  Vicomte.  "They  should  be 
back." 

"What  could  they  do?"  the  Vicomte  answered  in  a 
tone  of  despair. 

"Forty  swords  can  do  much,"  Joyeuse  answered 
hardily.  "Were  I  sound  I  should  know  what  to  do. 
And  that  right  well!" 

"They  started  too  late." 


THE  HEART  OF  CAIN.  297 

"The  greater  reason  they  should  be  back!  Were  all 
ove:  they  would  be  back." 

"1  have  no  hope." 

"I  have.  Had  they  desired  to  kill  them  only/'  the 
Duke  continued  with  reason,  "the  brutes  had  done  it 
here,  in  a  moment!  If  they  did  not  hope  to  use  them 
why  carry  them  off?" 

But  the  Vicomte  with  a  quivering  lip  shook  his  head. 
He  was  still  thinking — with  marvellous  unselfishness  for 
him — of  the  daughter  who  had  borne  with  him  so  long 
and  so  patiently.  For  des  Ageaux  there  might  be  hope 
and  a  chance.  But  a  woman  in  the  hands  of  savages 
such  as  those  he  had  seen  in  the  town  on  the  hill!  He 
shuddered  as  he  thought  of  it.  Better  death,  better 
death  a  hundred  times  than  that.  He  did  not  wish  to 
see  her  again. 

But  in  one  heart  the  mention  of  hope  had  awakened 
hope.  The  Abbess  raised  herself  on  her  elbow.  "Who 
have  gone?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  so  hollow  and  changed 
they  started  as  at  the  voice  of  a  stranger.  "Who  are 
gone?"  she  repeated. 

"All  but  eight  spears!"  the  Duke  answered. 

"Why  not  all?"  she  cried  feverishly.  "Why  not 
all?" 

"Some  it  was  necessary  to  keep,"  Joyeuse  replied 
gently.  "Not  one  has  been  kept  that  could  go.  If 
your  sister  can  be  saved,  she  will  be  saved." 

"Too  late!"  the  Vicomte  muttered.  And  he  shook 
his  head. 

The  Abbess  sank  back  with  a  groan.  But  a  moment 
later  she  broke  into  a  passion  of  weeping.  The  cord  that 
had  bound  her  heart  had  snapped.  The  first  horror  of 
the  thing  which  she  had  done  was  passing.     The  first 


298  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

excuse,  the  first  suggestion  that  for  that  which  she  had 
not  intended  she  was  not  answerable,  was  whispering  at 
the  threshold  of  her  ear.  As  she  wept  in  passionate,  in 
unrestrained  abandonment,  regardmg  none  of  those 
about  her,  wonder,  an  almost  resentful  wonder,  grew  in 
the  Vicomte's  heart.  He  had  not  given  her  credit  for  a 
tithe,  for  a  hundredth  part  of  the  affection  she  felt  for  her 
sister!  For  the  Duke,  he,  who  had  seen  her  consistently 
placid,  garbed  in  gentle  dignity,  and  as  unemotional  as 
she  was  beautiful,  marvelled  for  a  different  reason.  He 
hailed  the  human  in  her  with  delight;  he  could  have 
blessed  the  weepmg  girl  for  every  tear  that  proclaimed 
her  woman.  By  the  depth  of  her  love  for  her  sister  he 
plumbed  her  capacity  for  a  more  earthly  passion.  He 
rejoiced,  therefore,  as  much  as  he  marvelled. 

There  was  one  other  upon  whom  Odette's  sudden 
breakdown  wrought  even  more  powerfully ;  and  that  was 
the  Countess.  While  the  sister  remained  stunned  by  the 
dreadful  news  and  deaf  to  consolation,  the  poor  child,  who 
took  all  to  herself  and  mingled  shame  with  her  grief,  had 
not  dared  to  speak;  she  had  not  found  the  heart  or  the 
courage  to  speak.  Awed  by  the  immensity  of  the  catas- 
trophe, and  the  Abbess's  stricken  face,  she  had  cowered 
on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  with  her  face  hidden;  and 
weeping  silently  and  piteously,  had  not  presumed  to 
trouble  the  other  with  her  remorse  or  her  useless  regret. 
But  the  tears  of  a  woman  appeal  to  another  woman  after 
a  fashion  all  their  own.  They  soften,  they  invite.  No 
sooner,  then,  had  Odette  proclaimed  herself  human  by 
the  abandonment  of  her  grief  than  the  Countess  felt  the 
impulse  to  throw  herself  into  her  arms  and  implore  her 
forgiveness.  She  knew,  none  better,  that  Bonne  had 
suffered  in  her  place;  that  in  her  place  and  because  of 


THE  HEART  OF  CAIN.  299 

her  fears — proved  only  too  real — she  nad  gone  to  death 
or  worse  than  death;  that  the  fault  lay  with  herself. 
And  that  she  took  it  to  herself,  that  her  heart  was  full 
of  remorse  and  love  and  contrition — all  this  she  longed 
to  say  to  the  sister.  Before  Odette  knew  what  to  expect 
or  to  fear,  the  younger  woman  was  in  her  arms. 

One  moment.  The  next  Odette  struck  her — struck 
her  with  furious,  frantic  rage,  and  flung  her  from  her. 
"It  is  you!  You  have  done  this!  You!"  she  cried, 
panting,  and  with  blazing  eyes,  "You  have  killed 
her!    You!" 

The  young  girl  staggered  back  with  the  mark  of 
the  Abbess's  fingers  crimson  on  her  cheek.  She  stood 
an  instant  breathing  hard,  the  combative  instinct 
awakened  by  the  blow  showing  in  her  eyes  and  her 
smaD  bared  teeth.  Then  she  flung  her  hands  to  her 
face.  "It  is  true!  It  is  true!"  she  sobbed.  "But  I 
did  not  know ! " 

"Know?"  the  Abbess  cried  back  relentlessly;  and 
she  was  going  to  add  other  and  madder  and  more  insult- 
ing words,  when  her  father's  face  of  amazement  checked 
her.  She  fell  back  sullenly,  and  with  a  gesture  of  despair 
turned  her  face  to  the  wall. 

The  Vicomte  was  on  his  feet,  shocked  by  what  had 
passed.  He  began  to  babble  words  of  apology,  of 
excuse;  while  Joyeuse,  ravished,  strange  to  say,  by 
the  spirit  of  the  woman  he  had  deemed  above  anger 
and  above  passion,  sirdled  exultant,  wondering  what 
new,  what  marvellous,  what  incomparable  side  of 
herself  this  wonderful  woman  would  next  exhibit.  He 
who  had  exhausted  all  common  types,  all  common 
moods,  saw  that  he  had  here  the  quintessence  both  of 
heaven   and   earth.     Her   beauty,    her   meekness,    her 


300  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

indignation,  her  sorrow — what  an  amalgam  was  here! 
And  how  all  qualities  became  her! 

Had  Roger  been  there  he  had  taken,  it  is  possible, 
another  view.  But  he  was  not;  and  presently  into 
the  halting  flow  of  the  Vicomte's  words  crept  a  murmur, 
a  tramp  of  feet,  a  sound  indescribable,  but  proclaiming 
news.  He  broke  off.  "  What  is  it?  ".  he  said.  "  What 
is  it?" 

"  News !  Ay,  news,  for  a  hundred  crowns ! "  the  Duke 
answered.     He  moved  to  the  door. 

The  Countess,  her  face  bedabbled  with  tears,  tears  of 
outraged  pride  as  well  as  grief,  stayed  her  sobs  and 
looked  in  the  same  direction.  Even  the  Abbess  caught 
the  infection,  and  raising  her  head  from  the  pillow 
hstened  with  parted  Ups  and  staring  eyes.  News! 
There  was  news.  But  what  was  it?  Good  or  bad? 
The  Abbess,  her  heart  standing  still,  bit  her  lip  till  the 
blood  came. 

The  murmur  of  voices  drew  nearer. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


TWO     IN    THE    MILL. 


It  is  possible  that  Bonne  did  not  herself  know  in 
what  proportions  pity  and  a  warmer  sentiment  entered 
into  her  motives  when  she  undertook  to  pass  for  the 
Countess  and  assume  the  girl's  risks.  Certainly  her 
first  thought  was  for  the  Countess;  and,  for  the  rest,  she 
felt  herself  cleared  from  the  reproach  of  immaidenhness 
by  the  danger  of  the  step  which  she  was  taking.  Even 
so,  as  she  rode  across  the  camp  in  the  dusk  of  the  first 
evening,  into  the  half  pain,  half  pleasure  that  burned 
her  cheeks  under  the  disguising  hood  entered  some 
heat  of  shame. 

Not  that  it  formed  a  part  of  her  plan  that  des  Ageaux 
should  discover  her.  To  be  near  him  unknown,  to  share 
his  peril  whom  she  loved,  while  he  remained  unwitting, 
to  give  and  take  nothing — this  was  the  essence  of  the 
mystery  that  charmed  her  fancy,  this  was  the  heart  of 
the  adventure  on  which  her  affection  had  settled.  He, 
by  whose  side  she  rode,  and  near  whom  she  must  pass 
the  dark  hours  in  a  solitude  which  only  love  could  rob 
of  its  terrors,  must  never  know  what  she  had  done  for 
love  of  him;  or  know  it  only  from  her  hps  in  a  delicious 
future  on  which  reason  forbade  her  to  count. 

In  supporting  her  disguise  she  was  perfectly  success- 

301 


302  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

fill.  No  suspicion  that  the  girl  riding  beside  him  in 
depressed  silence  was  other  than  the  Countess,  the 
unwiUing  sharer  of  his  exile,  crossed  his  mind.  Bonne, 
hooded  to  the  eyes  and  muffled  in  her  cloak,  sat  low- 
hunched  on  her  horse.  Fulbert,  who  was  in  the  secret, 
and  to  whom  notliing  which  any  one  could  do  for  his 
adored  mistress  seemed  odd  or  extraordinary,  helped 
her  to  m.ount  and  dismount,  and  nightly  lay  grim  and 
stark  across  the  door  of  her  hut  repelhng  inquiry.  Add 
the  fact  that  the  Lieutenant  on  his  side  had  his  dehcacy. 
Fortune  compelled  the  Countess  into  his  company,  forced 
her  on  his  protection.  It  behoved  him  to  take  no 
advantage,  and,  short  of  an  indifference  that  might 
appear  brutal,  to  leave  her  as  much  as  possible  to  her- 
self. 

Bonne  therefore  had  her  wish.  He  had  no  shghtest 
suspicion  who  was  with  him.  She  had,  too,  if  she 
needed  it,  proof  of  his  honour;  proof  certain  that  if  he 
loved  the  great  lady,  he  respected  her  to  the  same 
extent.  Love  her  he  might,  see  in  her  a  grand  alliance 
he  might;  but  had  he  been  the  adventurer  the  Abbess 
styled  him,  he  had  surely  made  more  of  this  opportunity, 
more  of  her  helplessness  and  her  dejDendence.  The 
Countess's  fortune,  the  wide  lands  that  had  tempted 
Vlaye,  what  a  chance  of  making  them  sure  was  his! 
No  great  lady  was  here,  but  a  young  girl  helpless, 
terrified,  hedged  in  by  perils.  Such  an  one  would  be 
ready  at  the  first  word,  at  a  sign,  to  fhng  herself  into 
the  arms  of  her  only  friend,  her  only  protector,  and 
promise  liim  all  and  everything  if  he  would  but  save 
her  scatheless. 

Bonne  had  imagination  enough,  and  perhaps  jealousy 
enough,  to  picture  the  temptation.     And  finding  him 


TWO  IN  THE  MILL.  303 

superior  to  it — so  that  in  the  sweetness  of  her  secret 
nearness  to  him  was  mingled  no  gall — she  whispered  to 
herself  that  if  he  loved  he  did  not  love  overmuch.  Was 
it  possible  that  he  did  not  love — in  that  direction?  Was 
it  possible  that  he  had  no  more  feehng  for  the  Countess 
than  she  had  for  him? 

Perhaps  for  an  hour  Bonne  was  happy — happy  in 
these  thoughts.  Happy  while  the  tones  of  his  even 
and  courteous  voice,  telling  her  that  she  need  fear 
nothing,  dwelt  in  her  ears.  For  that  period  the  pleas- 
ures of  fancy  overcame  the  tremors  of  the  real.  Then 
— for  sleep  was  in  no  haste  to  visit  her — a  chance 
rustle,  caused  by  something  moving  in  her  neighbour- 
hood, the  passage  it  might  be  of  a  prowling  dog,  made 
her  prick  her  ears,  forced  her  against  her  will  to  listen, 
sent  a  creepy  chill  down  her  back.  After  that  she 
was  lost.  She  did  not  wish  to  think  of  such  things, 
it  was  foolish  to  think  of  such  things;  but  how  flimsy 
were  the  walls  of  her  hut!  How  defenceless  she  lay, 
in  the  midst  of  the  savage,  grisly  horde,  whose  looks 
even  in  the  daylight  had  paled  her  cheeks.  How  use- 
less must  two  swords  prove  agamst  a  multitude! 

She  must  divert  her  thoughts.  Alas,  when  she  tried 
to  do  so,  she  found  it  impossible.  It  was  in  vain  that 
she  chid  herself,  in  vain  that  she  asked  herself  what 
she  was  doing  there,  if  des  Ageaux'  presence  were  no 
charm  against  fear,  if  with  him  at  hand  she  was  a 
coward!  Always  some  sound,  something  that  seemed 
the  shuffle  of  feet  or  the  whisper  of  murder,  brought 
her  to  earth  with  quivering  nerves;  and  as  by  the 
Lieutenant's  desire  she  burned  no  light,  she  could  not 
interpret  the  most  innocent  alarm  or  learn  its  origin. 
She  was  no  coward.     But  to  lie  in  the  dark,  expecting 


304         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

and  trembling,  and  thrice  in  the  hour  to  sit  up  bathed 
in  perspiration — a  short  experience  of  this  left  her  no 
right  to  despise  the  younger  girl  whose  place  she  had 
taken.  When  at  last  the  longed-for  light  pierced  the 
thin  walls,  and  she  knew  that  the  night  was  past,  she 
knew  also  that  she  looked  forward  to  a  second  with 
dread.    And  she  hated  herself  for  it. 

Not  that  to  escape  a  hundred  such  nights  would  she 
withdraw.  If  she  suffered,  what  must  the  child  have 
suffered?  She  was  clear  that  the  Countess  must  not 
go  again.  But  during  the  day  she  was  more  grave 
than  usual;  more  tender  with  her  father,  more  affec- 
tionate to  her  sister.  And  when  she  rode  across  the 
camp  in  the  evening,  exciting  as  little  suspicion  as 
before,  she  carried  with  her,  hidden  in  her  dress,  a 
thing  that  she  touched  now  and  again  to  assure  herself 
of  its  safety.  She  took  it  with  her  to  the  rough  pallet 
on  which  she  lay  in  her  clothes;  and  her  hand  clasped 
it  under  the  pillow.  Something  of  a  link  it  seemed 
between  her  and  des  Ageaux,  so  near  yet  so  unwitting; 
for  as  she  held  it  her  mind  ran  on  him.  It  kept  at 
bay,  albeit  it  was  a  strange  amulet  for  a  woman's 
hand,  the  thought  that  had  troubled  her  the  previous 
night;  and  though  more  than  once  she  raised  herself 
on  her  elbow,  fancying  that  she  heard  some  one  moving 
outside,  the  panic-terror  that  had  bedewed  her  brow 
was  absent.  She  lay  down  again  on  these  occasions 
with  her  fingers  on  her  treasure.  And  towards  morning 
she  slept — slept  so  soundly  that  when  the  Ught  touched 
her  eyelids  and  woke  her,  she  sprang  up  in  pleased 
confusion.  They  were  calHng  her,  the  horses  were  wait- 
ing at  the  door.  And  in  haste  she  wrapped  herself  in 
her  travesty. 


TWO  IN  THE  MILL.  305 

"I  give  you  joy  of  your  courage,  Countess!"  the 
Lieutenant  said,  as  he  came  forward  to  assist  her  to 
mount.  Fortunately  Fulbert,  with  apparent  clumsi- 
ness, interposed  and  did  ner  the  office.  "You  have 
slept?"  des  Ageaux  continued,  as  he  swimg  himself 
into  his  saddle  and  took  his  place  by  her  side.  "That's 
good,"  accepting  her  inarticulate  murmur  for  assent. 
"Well,  one  more  night  will  end  it,  I  fancy.  I  greatly, 
very  greatly  regret,"  he  continued,  speaking  with  more 
warmth  than  usual,  "that  it  has  been  necessary  to  ex- 
pose you  to  this  strain.  Countess,". 

Again  she  muttered  something  through  her  closely 
drawn  hood.  Fortunately  a  chill,  grey  mist,  through 
which  the  huts  loomed  gigantic,  swathed  the  camp, 
and  he  thought  that  it  was  to  guard  herself  from  this 
that  she  kept  her  mouth  covered.  He  suspected  noth- 
ing, though,  at  dismounting,  Fulbert  interposed  again. 
In  two  minutes  from  startmg  she  was  safe  within  the 
shelter  of  the  Countess's  hut,  with  the  Countess's  arms 
about  her,  and  the  child's  grateful  kisses  warm  on  her 
cheek. 

He  had  praised  her  courage  1  That  was  something; 
nay,  it  was  much  if  he  learned  the  truth.  But  he 
should  never  learn  it  from  her,  she  was  resolved.  She 
had  the  loyalty  which,  if  it  gives,  gives  nobly;  nor 
by  telling  robs  the  gift  of  half  its  virtue.  She  had 
saved  the  younger  woman  some  hours  of  fear  and 
misery,  but  at  a  price  too  high  were  she  ever  to  speak 
and  betray  her  confidence.  No  one  saw  that  more 
clearly  than  Bonne,  or  was  more  firmly  resolved  to  hide 
her  share  in  the  matter. 

The  third  night  she  set  out,  not  with  indifference, 
since  she  rode  by  his  side  whose  presence  could  never 


306  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

be  indifferent  to  her,  but  with  a  heart  comparatively- 
light.  If  she  took  with  her  the  charm  which  had 
served  her  so  well,  if  it  attended  her  to  her  couch  and 
lay  beneath  her  pillow,  it  was  no  longer  the  same 
thing  to  her;  she  smiled  as  she  placed  it  there.  And  if 
her  fingers  closed  on  it  in  silence  and  darkness  and  she 
derived  some  comfort  from  it,  she  fell  asleep  with 
scarce  a  thought  of  the  things  its  presence  imported. 
For  two  nights  she  had  slept  little;  now,  worn-out,  she 
was  proof  against  all  ordinary  sounds,  the  rustle  of  a 
dog  prowlmg  in  search  of  food,  or  the  restless  move- 
ments of  a  horse  tethered  near.  Ay,  and  agamst  other 
sounds  as  stealthy  as  these  and  more  dangerous,  that 
by-and-by  crept  rustling  and  whispering  through  the 
camp;  sounds  caused  by  a  cloud  of  low  stooping  figures 
that  moved  and  halted,  lurked  behuid  huts,  and  anon 
swept  forward  across  an  open  space,  and  again  lurking 
showed  hke  some  dark  shadow  of  the  night. 

A  shadow  fraught,  when  it  bared  its  face,  with  horror! 
For  what  was  that  cry,  sharp,  wild,  stopped  in  mid-utter- 
ance? 

Even  as  Bonne  sprang  up  palpitating,  and  glared  at 
the  open  doorway,  the  cry  rose  again — close  by  her;  and 
the  doorway  melted  into  a  press  of  dark  forms  that  hurled 
themselves  on  her  as  soon  as  they  were  seen.  She  was 
borne  back,  choked,  stifled;  and  desperately  writhing, 
vainly  striving  to  shriek,  or  to  free  mouth  or  hands  from 
the  folds  of  the  coverlets  that  blinded  her,  she  felt  herself 
lifted  up  in  a  grasp  against  which  it  was  vain  to  struggle. 
A  moment,  and  with  a  shock  that  took  away  what  breath 
was  left  in  her,  she  was  flung  head  and  heels  across 
something— across  a  horse;  for  the  moment  the  thing 
felt  her  weight  it  moved  under  her. 


TWO  IN  THE  MILL.  307 

Whoever  rode  it  held  her  pitilessly,  cnielly  heedless  of 
the  pain  her  position  caused  her.  She  could  hardly 
breathe,  she  could  not  see,  the  movement  was  torture; 
for  her  arms,  pinned  above  her  head,  were  caught  in  the 
folds  of  the  thing  that  swathed  her,  and  she  could  not 
use  them  to  support  herself.  Her  one  thought,  her  only 
thought  was  to  keep  her  senses;  her  one  instinct  to 
maintain  her  grip  on  the  long  sharp  knife  which  had  lain 
under  her  pillow;  and  which  had  become  more  valuable 
to  her  than  the  wealth  of  the  world.  The  hand  that  had 
rested  on  it  in  her  sleep  had  tightened  on  it  in  the 
moment  of  surprise.  She  had  it,  she  felt  it,  her  fingers, 
even  while  she  groaned  in  pain,  stiffened  about  its  haft. 

It  was  useless  to  struggle,  but  by  a  movement  she 
managed  at  last  to  relieve  the  pressure  on  her  side.  The 
blood  ceased  to  run  so  tumultuously  to  her  head.  And 
by-and-by,  under  the  mufflings,  she  freed  her  hands,  and 
by  holding  apart  the  edges  of  the  stuff  was  able  to 
breathe  more  easily,  and  even  to  learn  somethmg  of  what 
was  happening  about  her.  Abreast  of  her  horse  moved 
another  horse,  and  on  either  side  of  the  two  ran  and 
trotted  a  score  of  pattering  naked  feet,  feet  of  the  un- 
kempt filthy  Crocans  from  the  hill-town,  or  of  the  more 
desperate  spirits  in  the  camp — feet  of  men  from  whom 
no  ruth  or  mercy  was  to  be  expected. 

Were  they  clear  of  the  camp?  Yes,  for  to  one  side 
the  water  of  the  stream  glimmered  between  the  pattering 
feet.  As  she  made  the  discovery  the  other  horse  sidled 
against  the  one  that  bore  her,  and  all  but  crushed  her 
head  and  shoulders  between  their  bodies.  She  only 
saved  herself  by  lifting  herself  convulsively;  on  which 
the  man  who  held  her  thrust  her  down  brutally  with  an 
oath  as  savage  as  the  action.     She  uttered  a  moan  of 


308  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

pain,  but  it  was  wrung  from  her  against  her  will.  She 
would  have  suffered  twice  as  much  and  gladly  to  learn 
what  she  knew  now. 

The  horse  beside  her  also  carried  double;  and  the 
after  rider  was  a  prisoner,  a  man  with  his  hands  bound 
behind  him,  and  his  feet  roped  under  the  horse's  body. 
A  prisoner?  If  so  it  could  be  no  other  than  des  Ageaux. 
As  she  swung,  painfully,  to  the  movement  of  the  horse 
across  whose  withers  she  lay,  her  pendant  hands  lacked 
little  of  touching,  under  cover  of  the  stuff,  his  bound 
wrists. 

Little?  Nay,  nothing.  For  suddenly  the  footmen, 
for  a  reason  which  she  did  not  immediately  divine,  fell 
away  leftwards,  and  the  horse  that  bore  the  other  prisoner 
strove  to  turn  with  them.  Being  spurred  it  sidled  once 
more  against  hers,  and  though  she  raised  herself,  her 
head  rubbed  the  rider's  leg.  The  man  noticed  it,  patted 
her  head,  and  made  a  jest  upon  it.  "She  wants  to  come 
to  me,"  he  said.     "My  burden  for  yours,  Matthias  1" 

"Wait  until  we  are  througn  the  ford  and  I'll  talk,"  her 
captor  answered.  "What  will  you  offer  for  her?  But  it 
is  so  cursed  dark  here" — with  an  oath — "I  can  see 
nothing !  We  had  better  have  crossed  with  them  at  the 
stepping-stones  and  led  over."  As  he  spoke  he  turned 
his  horse  to  the  ford. 

She  knew  then  that  the  footmen  had  crossed  by  the 
stepping-stones,  a  hundred  yards  short  of  the  ford.  And 
she  felt  that  Heaven  itself  had  given  her,  weak  as  she  was, 
this  one  opportunity.  As  the  men  urged  their  horses 
warily  into  the  stream  she  stretched  herself  out  stiffly, 
and  gripping  the  bound  hands  that  hung  within  her 
reach,  she  cut  recklessly,  heeding  little  whether  she  cut 
to  the  bone  if  she  could  only  cut  the  cords.     The  man 


TWO  IN  THE  MILL.  309 

who  held  her  felt  her  body  writhing  under  his  hand;  for 
she  knew  that  any  instant  the  other  horse  might  move 
out  of  reach.  But  he  was  thinking  most  of  his  steed's 
footing,  he  had  no  fear  that  she  could  wrest  herself  from 
him,  and  he  contented  himself  for  the  moment  with  a 
curse  and  a  threat. 

"Burn  the  wench,"  he  cried,  ''she  won't  be  still!" 

"Don't  let  her  go  I"  the  other  answered. 

"No  fear !  And  when  we  have  her  on  the  hill  she  shall 
pay  for  this !    When ' ' 

It  was  his  last  word.  The  keen  long  knife  had  passed 
from  her  hands  to  des  Ageaux',  from  her  weak  fingers 
to  his  practised  grip.  As  the  man  who  held  her  paused 
to  peer  before  him — for  the  ford,  shadowed  by  spreading 
trees,  was  dark  as  pitch — des  Ageaux  drove  the  point 
straight  and  sure  into  the  throat  above  the  collar-bone. 
The  action  was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  that  the  man 
he  struck  had  no  time  to  cry  out,  but  with  a  low  gurgling 
moan  fell  forward  on  his  burden. 

His  comrade  who  rode  before  the  Lieutenant  knew 
little  more.  Before  he  could  turn,  almost  before  he 
could  give  the  alarm,  the  weapon  was  driven  in  between 
his  shoulders,  and  the  Lieutenant,  availing  himself  of  the 
purchase  which  his  bound  feet  gave  him,  hurled  him 
over  the  horse's  head.  Unfortunately  the  man  had  time 
to  utter  one  shriek,  and  the  cry  with  the  splash,  and  the 
plunging  of  the  terrified  horse,  bore  the  alarm  to  his 
comrades  on  the  bank. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter?"  a  voice  asked. 
And  a  score  of  feet  could  be  heard  pounding  hurriedly 
along  the  bank. 

The  Lieutenant  had  one  moment  only  in  which  to 
make  his  choice.     If  he  remained  on  the  horse,  which 


310 


THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 


he  could  not  restrain,  for  the  reins  had  fallen,  he  might 
escape,  but  the  girl  must  perish.  He  did  not  hesitate. 
As  the  frightened  horse  reared  he  cut  his  feet  loose, 
and  slid  from  it.  He  made  one  clutch  at  the  floating 
reins  but  missed  them.  Before  he  could  make  a  second 
the  terrified  animal  was  on  the  bank. 

There  remained  the  girl's  horse.  But  Bonne,  drenched 
by  the  dying  man's  blood,  had  flung  herself  off — some- 
how, anyhow,  in  irrepressible  horror.  As  des  Ageaux 
turned  she  rose,  dripping  and  panting  beside  him,  her 
nerve  quite  gone.  "Oh,  oh!"  she  cried.  ''Save  me! 
Save  me!"  and  she  clung  to  him. 

Alas,  while  she  clung  to  him  her  horse  floundered  out 
of  the  stream,  and  trotted  after  its  fellow. 

The  pursuers  were  no  more  than  thirty  yards  away, 
and  but  for  the  deep  shadow  which  lay  on  the  ford 
must  have  seen  them.  The  Lieutenant  had  no  time  to 
think.  He  caught  the  girl  up,  and  as  quickly  as  he 
could  he  waded  with  ner  to  the  bank  from  which  they 
had  entered  the  water.  Once  on  dry  land  he  set  her 
on  her  feet,  seized  her  wrist  and  gripped  it  firmly. 

' '  Courage ! "  he  said .  ' '  We  must  run !  Run  for  your 
life,  and  if  we  can  reacn  the  wind-mill  we  may  escape!" 
He  spoke  harshly,  but  his  words  had  the  effect  he 
intended.  She  straightened  herself,  caught  up  her  wet 
skirt  and  set  off  with  him  across  the  road  and  up  the 
bare  hill-side.  He  knew  that  not  far  above  them 
stood  a  wind-mill  with  a  narrow  doorway  in  which  one 
man  might  make  some  defence  against  numbers.  The 
chance  was  slight,  the  hope  desperate;  but  he  could 
see  no  other.  Already  the  pursuers  were  splashing 
through  the  ford  and  scattering  on  the  trail,  some 
running  up  the  stream,  some  down,  some  stooping  cun- 


TWO  IN  THE  MILL.  311 

ningly  to  listen.     To  remain  beside  the  water  was  to 
be  hunted  as  otters  are  hunted. 

His  plan  answered  well  at  first.  For  a  few  precious 
instants  their  line  of  retreat  escaped  detection.  They 
even  increased  their  start,  and  had  put  fifty  or  sixty 
yards  of  slippery  hill-side  between  themselves  and 
danger  before  a  man  of  sharper  ears  than  his  fellows 
caugnt  the  sound  of  a  stone  rolhng  down  the  slope, 
and  drew  the  hue  and  cry  in  the  right  direction.  By 
that  time  the  dark  form  of  the  wind-mill  was  faintly 
visible  sixty  or  eighty  yards  above  the  fugitives.  And 
the  race  was  not  ill  set. 

But  Bonne's  skirt  hung  heavy,  her  knees  shook;  and 
nearer  and  nearer  she  heard  the  pursuers'  feet.  She 
could  do  no  more !  She  must  fall,  her  lungs  were  burst- 
ing! But  des  Ageaux  dragged  her  on  ruthlessly,  and 
on;  and  now  the  wind-mill  was  not  ten  paces  before 
them. 

"In!"  he  cried.  "In!"  And  loosing  her  hand,  he 
turned,  quick  as  a  hare,  the  knife  gleaming  in  his 
hand. 

But  the  nearest  man — the  Lieutenant's  ear  had  told 
him  that  only  one  was  quite  near — saw  the  action  and 
the  knife,  and  as  quickly  sheered  off,  to  wait  for  his 
companions.  The  Lieutenant  turned  again,  and  in  half 
a  dozen  bounds  was  through  the  low  narrow  doorway 
and  in  the  mill  tower. 

He  had  no  sword,  he  had  only  the  knife,  still  reeking. 
But  he  made  no  complaint.  Instead,  "There  were 
sheep  penned  here  yesterday,"  he  panted.  "There 
are  some  bars  somewhere.  Grope  for  them  and  find 
them." 

"Yes!"  she  said.    And  she  groped  bravely  hi  the 


312  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

darkness,  though  her  breath  came  in  sobs.  She  found 
the  bars.  Before  the  half-dozen  men  who  led  the  chase 
had  squeezed  their  courage  to  the  attacking  point,  the 
bars  that  meant  so  much  to  the  fugitives  were  in  their 
places.  Then  des  Ageaux  bade  her  keep  on  one  side, 
while  he  crouched  with  his  knife  beside  the  opening. 

The  men  outside  were  chattering  and  scolding  furi- 
ously. At  length  they  scattered,  and  instead  of  charg- 
ing the  doorway,  fired  a  couple  of  shots  into  it  and 
held  off,  waiting  for  reinforcements.  "Courage,  we 
have  a  fair  chance  now,"  the  Lieutenant  muttered. 
And  then  in  a  different  tone,  "Thanks  to  you!  Thanks 
to  youl"  with  deep  emotion.  "Never  woman  did  bra- 
ver thing!" 

"Then  do  you  one  thing  for  me!"  she  answered,  her 
voice  shaking,  "Promise  that  I  shall  not  fall  into  their 
hands!  Promise,  sir,  promise,"  she  continued  hysteri- 
cally, "that  you  will  kill  me  yourself!  I  have  given 
you  my  knife.  I  have  given  you  all  I  had.  If  you 
will  not  promise  you  must  give  it  back  to  me." 

"God  forbid!"  he  said.  And  then,  "Dear  Lord,  am 
I  mad?  Who  was  it  I  picked  up  at  the  ford?  Am  I 
mad  or  dreaming?    You  are  not  the  Countess?" 

"I  took  her  place,"  she  panted.  "I  am  Bonne  de 
Villeneuve."  The  place  was  so  dark  that  neither  could 
see  the  other's  face,  nor  so  much  as  the  outline  of  the 
figure. 

"I  might  have  known  it,"  he  cried  impulsively. 
And  even  in  that  moment  of  danger,  of  discomfort,  of 
uncertainty,  the  girl's  heart  swelled  at  the  inference 
she  drew  from  his  words.  "I  might  have  known  iti" 
he  repeated  with  emotion.  "No  other  woman  would 
have  done  it,  sweet,  would  have  done  it'    But  how — 


TWO  IN  THE  MILL.  313 

I  am  as  far  from  understanding  as  ever — how  come 
you  to  be  here?    And  not  the  Countess?" 

"I  took  her  place,"  Bonne  repeated — the  truth  mvist 
out  now.  "She  is  very  young  and  it  was  hurting  her. 
She  was  ill." 

"You  took  her  place?    To-night?" 

"This  is— the  third  night." 

"And  I" — in  a  tone  of  wonder  that  a  second  time 
brought  the  blood  to  her  cheeks — "I  never  discovered 
you!  You  rode  beside  me  all  those  nights — all  those 
nignts  and  I  never  knew  you!    Is  it  possible?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  Then,  "By  Heaven,  it  was 
well  for  me  that  you  did!"  he  murmured.  "Very  well! 
Very  well !  Without  you  where  should  I  be  now?"  His 
eyes  strove  to  pierce  the  darkness  in  which  she  crouched 
on  the  farther  side  of  the  opening,  scarce  out  of  reach 
of  his  hand.  "Where  should  I  be  now?  A  handsome 
situation,"  he  continued  bitterly,  "for  the  Governor  of 
P^rigord  to  be  seized  and  hurried  to  a  dog's  death  by  a 
band  of  brigands!    And  to  be  rescued  by  a  woman!" 

"Is  it  so  dreadful  to  you,"  she  murmured,  "to  owe 
your  life  to  a  woman?" 

"Is  it  so  dreadful  to  me,"  he  repeated  in  an  altered 
tone,  "to  owe  my  life  to  you,  do  you  mean?    I  am 

willing  to  owe  all  to  you.    You  are  the  only  woman " 

But  there,  even  as  her  heart  began  to  flutter,  he  stopped. 
He  stopped  and  she  fell  to  earth.  "They  are  coming!" 
he  muttered.  "Keep  yourself  close!  For  God's  sake, 
keep  yourself  close!" 

"And  you  too!"  she  cried  impulsively.  "Your  life  is 
mine." 

He  did  not  answer:   perhaps  he  did  not  hear.     The 


314  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

Crocans  who  had  spent  some  minutes  in  consultation 
had  brought  a  beam  up  the  hill.  They  were  about  to 
drive  it  against  the  stout  wooden  bars,  of  which  they 
must  have  guessed  the  presence,  since  they  could  not 
see  them.  The  plan  was  not  unwise;  and  as  they 
fell  into  a  ragged  line  on  either  side  of  the  ram,  while 
three  skirmished  foi'ward,  with  a  view  to  leaping  into 
the  openitig  before  the  defenders  could  recover  from 
the  shock,  the  Lieutenant's  heart  sank.  The  form  of 
attack  was  less  simple  than  he  had  hoped.  He  had 
exulted  too  soon. 

Whether  Bonne  knew  this  or  not,  she  acted  as  if  she 
knew  it.  As  the  leader  of  the  assault  shouted  to  his  men 
to  be  ready,  and  the  men  lifted  the  beam  hip  high,  she 
flitted  across  the  opening,  and  des  Ageaux  felt  her 
fingers  close  upon  Ms  arm. 

He  did  not  misunderstand  her:  he  knew  that  she 
meant  only  to  remind  him  of  his  promise.  But  at  the 
touch  a  wave  of  feeling,  as  unexpected  as  it  was  irre- 
sistible, filled  the  breast  of  the  case-hardened  soldier; 
who,  something  cold  by  nature,  had  hitherto  found  in 
his  career  all  that  he  craved.  At  that  touch  the  admira- 
tion and  interest  which  had  been  working  within  him 
since  his  tallc  with  Bonne  in  the  old  garden  at  VDleneuve 
blossomed  into  a  feeling  infinitely  more  tender,  infinitely 
stronger — mto  a  love  that  craved  return.  The  girl 
who  had  saved  him,  who  had  proved  herself  so  brave, 
so  true,  so  gentle,  what  a  wife  would  she  be!  What  a 
mother  of  brave  and  loyal  and  gentle  cliildren,  meet 
sons  and  daughters  of  a  loyal  sire!  And  even  as  he 
thought  that  thought  and  was  conscious  of  the  love 
that  pervaded  his  being,  he  felt  her  shiver  against  him, 
and  before  he  knew  it  his  arm  was  round  her,  he  was 


TWO  IN  THE  MILL.  315 

clasping  her  to  him,  giving  her  assurance  that  until 
the  end — ^until  the  end  he  would  not  let  her  go!  He 
would  never  let  her  go. 

And  the  end  was  not  yet.  For  his  lips  in  that  moment 
which  he  thought  might  be  their  last  found  hers  in  the 
darkness,  and  she  knew  seconds  of  a  great  joy  that 
seemed  to  her  long  as  hours  as  she  crouched  against 
him  unresisting;  while  the  last  orders  of  the  men  who 
sought  their  lives  found  strange  echo  in  his  words  of 
love. 

Crash!  The  splinters  flew  to  right  and  left,  the  two 
upper  bars  were  gone,  dully  the  beam  struck  the  back 
of  the  mill.  But  he  had  drawn  her  behind  him,  and 
was  waiting  with  the  tight-grasped  knife  for  the  man 
bold  enough  to  leap  through  the  opening.  Woe  betide 
the  first,  though  he  must  keep  his  second  blow  for  her. 
After  that — if  he  had  to  strike  her — there  would  be  one 
moment  of  joy,  while  he  fought  them. 

But  the  stormers,  poor-hearted,  deemed  the  breach 
insufficient.  They  drew  back  the  beam,  intending  to 
break  the  lowest  bar,  which  still  held  place.  Once  more 
they  cried,  "  One !  Two !"  But  not  "  Three  I"  In  place 
of  the  word  a  yell  of  pain  rang  loud,  down  crashed  the 
battering-ram,  and  high  rose — as  all  fled  headlong — a 
clamour  of  slirieks  and  curses.  A  moment  and  the 
thunder  of  hoofs  followed,  and  mail-clad  men,  riding 
recklessly  along  the  steep  hill-side,  fell  on  the  poor 
naked  creatures,  and  driving  them  pell-mell  before  them 
amid  stem  cries  of  vengeance,  cut  and  hacked  them 
without  mercy. 

Trembling  violently.  Bonne  clung  to  her  lover.  "  Oh, 
what  is  it?  What  is  it?"  she  cried.  "What  is  it?" 
Her  spirits  could  endure  no  more. 


316  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Safety!"  he  replied,  the  harder  nature  of  the  man 
asserting  itself.  "Safety,  sweetheart!  Hold  up  your 
head,  brave!    What,  swooning  now  when  all  is  well!" 

Ay,  swoonmg  now.  The  word  safety  sufficed.  She 
fell  against  him,  her  head  dropped  back. 

As  soon  as  he  was  assured  of  it,  he  lifted  her  in  his 
arms  with  a  new  feeling  of  ownership.  And  climbing, 
not  without  difficulty,  over  the  bar  that  remained,  he 
emerged  into  something  that,  m  comparison  of  the  dark- 
ness within  the  mill,  was  light — for  the  day  was  coming. 
Before  the  door  two  horsemen,  still  in  their  saddles, 
awaited  him.  One  was  tall,  the  other  stout  and  much 
shorter. 

"Is  that  you,  Roger?"  he  asked.  It  was  not  light 
enough  to  discern  faces. 

The  shorter  figure  to  which  he  addressed  himself  did 
not  answer.  The  other,  advancing  a  pace  and  reining 
up,  spoke. 

"No,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  at  once  veiled  and 
exposed  his  triumph,  "I  am  the  Captain  of  Vlaye. 
And  you  are  my  prisoner." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE   CAPTAIN   OF   VLAYE's   CONDITION. 

The  four  who  looked  to  the  door  of  the  Duke's  hut, 
and  waited  for  the  news,  were  not  relieved  as  quickly  as 
they  expected.  When  men  return  with  no  news  they 
are  apt  to  forget  that  others  are  less  wise  than  them- 
selves; and  where,  with  something  to  impart,  they  had 
flown  to  relieve  the  anxious,  they  are  prone  to  forget  that 
the  negative  has  its  value  for  those  who  are  in  suspense. 

Hence  some  minutes  elapsed  before  Roger  presented 
himself.  And  when  he  came  and  they  cried  breathlessly, 
"  Well,  what  news?"  his  answer  was  a  look  of  reproach. 

"  Should  I  not  have  come  at  once  if  there  had  been 
any?"  he  said.     "  Alas,  there  is  none." 

"  But  you  must  have  some!"  they  cried. 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered,  almost  sullenly.  "  All  we 
know  is  that  they  quarrelled  over  their  prisoners.  The 
hill  above  the  ford  is  a  shambles." 

The  Vicomte  repressed  the  first  movement  of  horror. 
"  Above  the  ford?"  he  said.     "  How  came  they  there?" 

Roger  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  We  don't  know,"  he 
said.  And  then  reading  a  dreadful  question  in  his  sister's 
eyes,  "  No,  there  is  no  sign  of  them,"  he  continued.  "  We 
crossed  to  the  old  town  on  the  hill,  but  found  it  locked 
and  barred.     The  brutes  mopped  and  mowed  at  us  from 

317 


318  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

the  wall,  but  we  could  get  no  word  of  Christian  speech 
from  them.  They  seemed  to  be  in  terror  of  us — which 
looks  ill.  But  we  had  no  ladders  and  no  force  sufficient 
to  storm  it,  and  the  Bat  sent  me  back  with  ten  spears  to 
make  you  safe  here  while  he  rode  on  with  Charles  towards 
Villeneuve." 

"  Villeneuve?"  the  Vicomte  asked,  raising  his  eye- 
brows.    "Why?" 

"  There  were  tracks  of  a  large  body  of  horsemen  mov- 
ing in  that  direction.  The  Bat  hopes  that  some  of  the 
wretches  quarrelled  wdth  the  others,  and  carried  off  the 
prisoners,  and  are  holding  them  safe — with  an  eye  to 
their  own  necks." 

"  God  grant  it!"  Odette  muttered  in  a  low  tone,  and 
with  so  much  feeHng  that  all  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 
Nor  had  the  prayer  passed  her  Hps  many  seconds  before 
it  was  answered.  The  sound  of  voices  drew  their  looks 
to  the  door,  a  shadow  fell  across  the  threshold,  the  sub- 
stance followed.  As  the  Uttle  Countess  sprang  forward 
with  a  shriek  of  joy  and  the  Abbess  dropped  back  in 
speechless  emotion,  Bonne  stood  before  them. 

"  He  has  granted  her  prayer,"  the  Duke  muttered  in 
astonishment.  "  Laus  Deo!''  Wliile  Roger,  scarcely  less 
sm-prised  than  if  a  ghost  had  appeared  before  them, 
stared  at  his  sister  with  all  his  eyes. 

She  barely  looked  at  them.  "  I  am  tired,"  she  said. 
'  Bear  with  me  a  moment.  Let  me  sit  down."  Then,  as 
if  she  were  not  content  with  the  surprise  which  her  words 
caused,  "Don't  touch  me!"  she  continued,  recoihng 
before  the  Countess's  approach.  "  Wait  until  you  have 
heard  all.     You  have  Httle  cause  for  joy.     Wait ! " 

The  Vicomte  thought  his  worst  fears  justified.  "  But, 
my  child,"  he  faltered,  "  is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE'S  CONDITION.        319 

us?"     And  to  the  others,  in  a  lower  voice,  '•  She  is  dis- 
traught !   She  is  beside  herseK.   Can  those  wretches " 

"  I  escaped  them,"  she  rephed,  in  the  same  dull  tones. 
"  They  have  done  me  no  harm.  Let  me  rest  a  minute 
before  I  tell  you." 

Roger  stayed  the  inquiry  after  the  Lieutenant  which 
was  on  his  hps.  It  was  evident  to  him  and  to  all  that 
something  serious  had  happened:  that  the  girl  before 
them  was  not  the  girl  who  had  ridden  away  yesterday 
with  so  brave  a  heart.  But,  freed  from  that  fear  of  the 
worst  which  the  Vicomte  had  entertained,  they  knew  not 
what  to  think.  Some  signs  of  shock,  some  evidences  of 
such  an  experience  as  she  had  passed  through,  were 
natural;  but  the  reaction  should  have  cast  her  into  their 
arms,  not  withheld  her — should  have  flung  her  weeping 
on  her  sister's  shoulder,  not  frozen  her  in  this  strange 
apathy. 

The  Abbess,  indeed,  who  had  recovered  from  the  par- 
oxysm of  gi'atitude  into  which  Bonne's  return  had  cast 
her,  eyed  her  sister  with  the  shadow  of  a  terror.  Con- 
science, which  makes  cowards  of  us  all,  suggested  to  her 
an  explanation  of  her  sister's  condition,  adec^uate  and 
more  than  adequate.  A  secret  alarm  kept  her  silent 
therefore:  while  the  young  Countess,  painfully  aware 
that  she  had  escaped  all  that  Bonne  had  suffered,  sank 
under  new  remorse.  For  the  others,  they  did  not  know 
what  to  think :  and  stealthily  reading  one  another's  eyes, 
felt  doubts  that  they  dared  not  acknowledge.  Was  it 
possible,  notwdthstanding  her  denial,  that  she  had  suf- 
fered ill-treatment? 

"  Perhaps  it  were  better,"  the  Duke  muttered,  "  if  we 
left  mademoiselle  in  the  care  of  her  sister?  " 

But  low  as  he  spoke.  Bonne  heard.     She  raised  her 


320  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

head  wearily.  ''This  does  not  he  with  her,"  she 
said. 

The  Abbess  breathed  more  freely.  The  colour  came 
back  to  her  cheeks.  She  sat  upright,  reheved  from  the 
secret  fear  that  had  oppressed  her,  ''  With  whom,  then, 
child?"  she  asked  in  her  natural  voice.  "And  why  this 
mystery?  But  we — have  forgotten  " — her  voice  faltered, 
"  we  have  forgotten,"  she  repeated  hardily,  ''  M.  des 
Ageaux.     Is  he  safe?  " 

"It  is  of  him  I  am  going  to  speak,"  Bonne  replied 
heavily. 

"He  has  not — ^he  has  not  fallen." 

"He  is  alive." 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that!"  Roger  cried  with  hearti- 
ness, his  eyes  sparkling.  "Has  he  gone  on  with  Charles 
and  the  Bat?" 

"No." 

"Then  where  is  he?"  She  did  not  answer,  and, 
startled,  Roger  looked  at  her,  the  others  looked  at  her. 
All  waited  for  the  reply. 

"He  is  in  the  Captain  of  Vlaye's  hands,"  she  said 
slowly.  And  a  gentle  spasm,  the  beginning  of  weeping 
which  did  not  follov/,  convulsed  her  features.  "  He 
saved  me,"  she  continued  in  trembling  tones,  "from  the 
peasants,  only  to  fall  into  M.  de  Vlaye's  hands." 

"Well,  that  was  better!"  Roger  answered. 

Her  lips  quivered,  but  she  did  not  reply.  Perhaps 
she  was  afraid  of  losing  that  control  over  herself  which 
it  had  cost  her  much  to  compass. 

But  the  Vicomte's  patience,  never  great,  was  at  an 
end.  He  saw  that  this  was  going  to  prove  a  trouble- 
some matter.  Hence  his  sudden  quenilousness.  "  Come, 
come,  girl,"  he  said  petulantly.     "Tell  us  what  has 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE'S  CONDITION.       321 

happened,  and  no  nonsense  1  Come,  an  end,  I  say! 
Tell  us  what  has  happened  from  the  beginning,  and 
let  us  have  no  mysteries  1" 

She  began.  In  a  low  voice,  and  with  the  same  tokens 
of  repressed  feeling,  she  detailed  what  had  happened 
from  the  moment  of  the  invasion  of  her  hut  by  the 
peasants  to  the  release  of  des  Ageaux  and  the  struggle 
in  the  river-bed. 

"He  owes  us  a  life  there,"  the  Vicomte  exclaimed, 
while  Roger's  eyes  beamed  with  pride. 

She  paid  no  heed  to  her  fatner's  interjection,  but 
continued  the  story  of  the  succeeding  events — the  as- 
sault on  the  mill,  and  the  arrival  of  Vlaye  and  his  men. 

"Who   in   truth  and  fact  saved   your  lives   then,' 
Roger  said.     "I  forgive  him  much  for  thatl    It  is  the 
best  thing  I  have  heard  of  him," 

"He  saved  my  life,"  Bonne  replied,  with  a  faint  but 
perceptible  shudder.  She  kept  her  eyes  dowr  as  if  she 
dared  not  meet  their  looks. 

"But  the  Lieutenant's  too,"  the  Vicomte  objected. 
"You  told  us  that  he  was  alive." 

"He  is  alive,"  she  murmured.  And  the  trembling 
began  to  overpower  her.     "Still  alive." 

"Then " 

"But  to-morrow  at  sunrise — "  her  voice  shook  with 
the  pent-up  misery,  the  long-repressed  pain  of  her  three 
hours'  ride  from  Vlaye — "to-morrow  at  sunrise,  he — 
he  must  die!" 

"What?" 

The  word  came  from  one  who  so  far  had  been  silent. 
And  the  Duke  rising  from  his  place  by  the  door  stood 
upright,  supporting  his  weakened  form  against  the  wall 
of  the  hutv     "What?"  he  repeated  in  a  voice  that  in 


322  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

spite  of  his  weakness  rang  cleai  and  loud  with  anger. 
"He  will  not  dare!" 

"M.  de  Vlaye?"  the  Vicomte  muttered  in  a  discom- 
fited tone,  "I  am  sure — I  am  sure  he  will  not — dream 
of  such  a  thing.     Certainly  not!" 

''M.  de  Vlaye  says  that  if — if "    Bonne  paused  as 

if  she  could  not  force  her  pallid  lips  to  utter  the  words 
— "he  says  that  at  sunrise  to-morrow  he  will  hang  him 
as  the  Lieutenant  last  week  hung  one  of  his  men." 

' '  For  murder !  Clear  proved  murder ! ' '  Roger  cried  in 
an  agitated  voice.     "Before  witnesses!" 

"Then  by  my  salvation  I  will  hang  him!"  Joyeuse 
retorted  in  a  voice  which  shook  with  rage;  and  one  of 
those  frantic,  blasphemous  passions  to  which  all  of 
his  race  were  subject  overcame  him.  "I  will  hang 
him  high  as  Haman,  and  like  a  dog  as  he  is!"  He 
snatched  a  glove  from  a  peg  on  the  wall  beside  him, 
and  flung  it  down  with  violence.  "Give  him  that,  the 
miserable  upstart!"  he  shrieked,  'and  tell  him  that 
as  surely  as  he  keeps  his  word,  I,  Henry  of  Joyeuse, 
who  for  every  spear  he  boasts  can  set  do^\^l  ten  to  that, 
will  hang  him  though  God  and  all  His  saints  stand 
between!  Give  it  him!  Give  it  him!  On  foot  or  on 
horse,  in  mail  or  in  shirt,  alone  or  by  fours,  I  am  his 
and  will  drag  his  filthy  life  from  him!  Go!"  he  con- 
tinued, turning,  his  eyes  suffused  with  rage,  on  Roger. 
"Or  bid  them  bring  me  my  horse  and  arms!  I  will 
to  him  now,  now,  and  pluck  his  beard!    I " 

"My  lord,  my  lord,"  Roger  remonstrated.  "You  are 
not  fit." 

Joyeuse  sank  back  exhausted  on  his  stool.  "For  him 
and  such  as  he  more  than  fit,"  he  muttered.  "More 
than  fit — coward  as  he  is!"    But  his  tone  and  evident 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE'S  CONDITION.       323 

weakness  gave  him  the  he.  He  looked  feebly  at  his 
hand,  opening  and  closing  it  under  his  ej^es.  "Well, 
let  him  wait,"  he  said.  "Let  him  wait  awhile.  But 
if  he  does  this,  I  will  kill  him  as  surely  as  I  sit  here!" 

"Ay,  to  be  sure!"  the  Vicomte  chimed  in.  "But 
unless  I  mistake,  my  lord,  we  are  on  a  false  scent. 
There  was  something  of  a  condition  unless  I  am  in  error. 
This  silly  girl,  who  is  more  moved  than  is  needful,  said 

— if,  if — that  M.  de  Vlaye  would  hang  him,  unless 

What  was  it,  child,  you  meant?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

It  was  Roger  whose  wits  saved  her  the  necessity. 
His  eyes  were  sharpened  by  affection;  he  knew  what 
had  gone  before.  He  guessed  that  which  held  her 
tongue. 

"Vfe  must  give  up  the  Countess!"  he  cried  in  gener- 
ous scorn.     "That  is  his  condition.     I  guess  it!" 

Bonne  bowed  her  head.  She  had  felt  that  to  state 
the  condition  to  the  helpless,  terrified  girl  at  whose 
expense  it  must  be  performed  was  a  shame  to  her;  that 
to  state  it  as  if  she  craved  its  performance,  expected  its 
performance,  looked  for  its  performance,  was  a  thing 
still  baser,  a  thing  dishonouring  to  her  family,  not  worthy 
a  Villeneuve — a  tiling  that  must  smirch  them  all  and 
rob  them  of  the  only  thing  left  to  them,  their  good 
name. 

Yet  if  she  did  not  speak,  if  she  did  not  make  it  known? 
If  she  did  not  do  this  for  him  who  loved  her  and  whom 
she  loved?  If  he  perished  because  she  was  too  proud 
to  crave  his  Hfe,  because  she  feared  lest  her  cloak  be 
stained  ever  so  httle?  That,  too,  was — she  could  not 
face  that. 

She  was  between  the  hammer  and  the  anvil.    The 


324         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

question,  what  she  should  do,  had  bowed  her  to  the 
ground.  She  had  seen  as  she  rode  that  she  must  choose 
between  honour  and  Hfe;  her  lover's  life,  her  own 
honour ! 

Meanwhile,  "Give  up  the  Countess?"  the  Vicomte 
muttered,  staring  at  his  son  in  dull  perplexity.  "  Give 
up  the  Countess?    Why?" 

"  Unless  she  is  surrendered,"  Roger  explained  in  a 
low  voice,  "  he  will  carry  out  his  threat.  He  goes  back, 
sir,  to  his  old  plan  of  strengthening  himself.  It  is  very 
clear.  He  thinks  that  with  the  Countess  in  his  power 
he  can  make  use  of  her  resources,  and  by  their  means 
defy  us." 

"  He  is  a  villain ! "  the  Vicomte  cried,  touched  in  his 
tenderest  point. 

"Villain  or  no  villain,  I  will  cut  his  throat  1"  Joyeuse 
exclaimed,  his  rage  flaming  up  anew.  "  If  he  touch  but 
a  hair  of  des  Ageaux'  head — who  was  wounded  striving 
to  save  my  brother's  life  at  Coutras,  as  all  the  world 
knows — I  will  never  leave  him  nor  forsake  him  till  I 
have  his  life!" 

"I  fear  that  will  not  avail  the  Lieutenant,"  Roger 
muttered  despondently. 

"No.  No,  it  may  not,"  the  Vicomte  agreed,  "but 
we  cannot  help  that."  He,  in  truth,  was  able  to  con- 
template the  Lieutenant's  fate  without  too  much  vexa- 
tion, or  any  overweening  temptation  to  abandon  the 
Countess.  "We  cannot  help  it,  and  that  is  all  that 
remains  to  be  said.  If  he  will  do  this  he  must  do  it. 
And  when  his  own  time  comes  his  blood  be  upon  his 
own  head!" 

But  the  girl  who  shared  with  Bonne  the  tragedy  of 
the  moment  had  something  to  say.     Slowly  the  Countess 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE'S  CONDITION.       325 

stood  up.  Timid  she  was,  but  she  had  the  full  pride  of 
her  race,  and  shame  had  been  her  portion  since  the 
discovery  of  the  thing  Bonne  had  done  to  save  her. 
The  smart  of  the  Abbess's  fingers  still  burned  her 
cheek  and  seared  her  pride.  Here,  Heaven-sent,  as 
it  seemed,  was  the  opportunity  of  redressing  the  wrong 
which  she  had  done  to  Bonne  and  of  setting  herself 
right  with  the  woman  who  had  outraged  her. 

The  price  which  she  must  pay,  the  costliness  of  the 
sacrifice  did  not  weigh  with  her  at  this  moment,  as  it 
would  weigh  with  her  when  her  blood  was  cool.  To 
save  Bonne's  lover  stood  for  something;  to  assert  herself 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  seen  her  insulted  and 
scorned  stood  for  much. 

"No,"  she  said  with  simple  dignity.  "There  is  some- 
thing more  to  be  said,  M.  le  Vicomte.  If  it  be  a  ques- 
tion of  M.  des  Ageaux'  life,  I  will  go  to  the  Captain  of 
Vlaye." 

"You  will  go?"  the  Vicomte  cried,  astounded. 
"You,  mademoiselle?" 

"Yes,"  she  rephed  slowly,  and  with  a  little  hardening 
of  her  childish  features.  "I  will  go.  Not  willingly, 
God  knows!  But  rather  than  M.  des  Ageaux  should 
die,  I  will  go." 

They  cried  out  upon  her,  those  most  loudly  who 
were  least  interested  in  her  decision.  But  the  one  for 
whose  protest  she  listened — Roger — was  silent.  She 
marked  that;  for  she  was  a  woman,  and  Roger's  timid 
attentions  had  not  passed  unnoticed,  nor,  it  may  be, 
unappreciated.  And  the  Abbess  was  silent.  She, 
whose  heart  this  latest  proof  of  her  lover's  infideUty 
served  but  to  harden,  she  whose  soul  revolted  from  the 
possibility  that  the  deed  which  she  had  done  to  sepa- 


326  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

rate  Vlaye  from  the  Countess  might  cast  the  girl  into 
his  arms,  was  silent  in  sheer  rage.  Into  far  different 
arms  had  she  thought  to  cast  the  Countess!  Now,  if 
this  were  to  be  the  end  of  her  scheme,  the  devil  had 
indeed  mocked  her! 

Nor  did  Bonne  speak,  though  her  heart  was  full.  For 
her  feelings  dragged  her  two  ways,  and  she  w^ould  not, 
nay,  she  could  not  speak.  That  much  she  owed  to  her 
lover.  Yet  the  idea  of  sacrificing  a  woman  to  save  a 
man  shocked  her  deeply,  shocked  alike  her  womanli- 
ness and  her  courage;  and  not  by  a  word,  not  by  so 
much  as  the  raising  of  a  finger  would  she  press  the 
girl,  whose  very  rank  and  power  left  her  friendless 
among  them,  and  made  her  for  the  time  their  sport. 
But  neither — though  her  heart  was  racked  with  pity 
and  shame — would  she  dissuade  her.  In  any  other 
circumstances  which  she  could  conceive,  she  had  cast 
her  arms  about  the  child  and  withheld  her  by  force. 
But  her  lover — her  lover  was  at  stake.  How  could  she 
sacrifice  him?  How  prefer  another  to  him?  And  after 
all — she,  too,  acknowledged,  she,  too,  felt  the  force  of 
the  argument — after  all,  the  Countess  would  be  only 
where  she  would  have  been  but  for  her.  But  for  her  the 
young  girl  would  be  already  in  Vlaye's  power;  or  worse, 
in  the  peasants'  hands.  If  she  went  now  she  did  but 
assume  her  own  perils,  take  her  own  part,  stand  on  her 
own  feet. 

"I  shall  go  the  rather,"  the  Countess  continued  coldly, 
using  that  very  argument,  "since  I  should  be  already 
in  his  power  had  I  gone  myself  to  the  peasants'  camp ! " 

"You  shall  not  go!  You  cannot  go!"  the  Vicomte 
repeated  with  stupid  iteration. 

"M.  le  Vicomte,"  she  answered,  "I  am  the  Countess 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE'S  CONDITION.         327 

of  Rochechouart."  And  the  little  figure,  the  uifantine 
face,  assumed  a  sudden  dignity. 

"It  is  unbecoming!" 

"It  becomes  me  less  to  let  a  gallant  gentleman  die." 

"But  you  will  be  in  Vlaye's  power." 

"God  mlling,"  she  replied,  her  spirit  still  sustaining 
her.  Was  not  the  Abbess,  whom  she  was  beginning  to 
hate,  looking  at  her? 

Ay,  looking  at  her  with  such  eyes,  with  such  thought, 
as  would  have  overwhelmed  her  could  she  have  read 
them.  Bitter  indeed,  were  Odette's  reflections  at  this 
moment — ^bitter!  She  had  stained  her  hands  and  the 
end  was  this.  She  had  stooped  to  a  vile  plot,  to  an  act 
that  might  have  cost  her  sister  her  life,  and  with  this  for 
reward.  The  triumph  was  her  rival's.  Before  her  eyes 
and  by  her  act  this  silly  chit,  with  heroics  on  her  lips, 
was  being  forced  into  his  arms !  And  she,  Odette,  stood 
powerless  to  check  the  issue  of  her  deed,  impotent  to 
interfere,  unable  even  to  vent  the  words  of  hatred  that 
trembled  on  her  lips. 

For  the  Duke  was  listening,  and  she  had  still  enough 
prudence,  enough  self-control,  to  remember  that  she  must 
not  expose  her  feelings  in  his  presence.  On  him  de- 
pended what  remained :  the  possibility  of  vengeance,  the 
chances  of  ambition.  She  knew  that  she  could  not  speak 
without  destroying  the  image  of  herself  which  she  had 
wrought  so  patiently  to  form.  And  even  when  he  added 
his  remonstrances  to  her  father's,  and  hot  words  imputing 
immodesty  rose  to  the  Abbess's  Ups — words  that  must 
have  brought  the  blood  to  the  Countess's  cheeks  and 
might  have  stung  her  to  the  renunciation  of  her  project, 
she  dared  not  utter  them.  She  swallowed  her  passion, 
and  showed  only  a  cold  mask  of  surprise. 


328  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

Not  that  the  Duke  said  much.  For  after  a  while, 
"Well,  perhaps  it  is  best,"  he  said.  "What  if  she  pass 
into  his  power !  It  is  better  a  woman  marry  than  a  man 
die.  We  can  make  the  one  a  widow;  whereas  to  bring 
the  other  to  life  would  puzzle  the  best  swordsman  in 
France!" 

The  Vicomte  persisted.  "But  there  is  no  burden  laid 
on  the  Countess  to  do  this,"  he  said.  "And  I  for  one 
will  be  no  party  to  it!  What?  Have  it  said  that  I  sur- 
rendered the  Countess  of  Rochechouart  who  sought  my 
protection?" 

"Sir,"  the  girl  replied,  trembling  slightly,  "no  one 
surrenders  the  Countess  save  the  Countess.  But  that  the 
less  may  be  said  to  your  injury,  my  own  people  shall 
attend  me  thither,  and " 

"They  will  avail  you  nothing!"  the  Vicomte  replied 
with  a  frankness  that  verged  on  brutality.  "  You  do  not 
understand,  mademoiselle.  You  are  scarcely  more  than 
a  child,  and  do  not  know  to  what  you  are  going.  You 
have  been  wont  to  be  safe  in  your  own  resources,  and 
now,  were  a  fortnight  given  you  to  gather  your  power, 
you  could  perhaps  make  M.  de  Vlaye  tremble.  But  you 
go  from  here,  in  three  hours  you  will  be  there,  and  then 
you  will  be  as  much  in  his  power,  despite  your  thirty  or 
forty  spears,  as  my  daughter  was  this  morning!" 

"I  count  on  nothing  else,"  she  said.  But  her  face 
burned.  And  Bonne,  who  suffered  with  her.  Bonne  who 
was  dragged  this  way  and  that,  and  would  and  would 
not,  in  whom  love  struggled  with  pity  and  shame  with 
joy,  into  her  face,  too,  crept  a  faint  colour.  How  cow- 
ardly, oh,  how  cowardly  seemed  her  conduct !  How  base 
in  her  to  buy  her  happiness  at  the  price  of  this  child's 
misery !    To  ransom  her  lover  at  a  woman's  cost !    It  was 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VLAYE'S  CONDITION.       329 

a  bargain  tnat  in  another's  case  she  had  repudiated  with 
scorn,  with  pride,  almost  with  loathing.  But  she  loved, 
she  loved.  And  who  that  loved  could  hesitate?  One 
here  and  there  perhaps,  some  woman  of  a  rare  and  noble 
nature,  cast  in  a  higher  mould  than  herself.  But  not 
Bonne  de  Villeneuve. 

Yet  the  word  she  would  not  utter  trembled  on  her 
tongue.  And  once,  twice  the  thought  of  Roger  shook 
her.  He,  too,  loved,  yet  he  bore  in  silence  to  see  his 
mistress  delivered,  tied  and  bound,  to  his  rival ! 

How,  she  asked  herself,  how  could  he  do  it,  how  could 
he  suffer  it?  How  could  he  stand  by  and  see  this  inno- 
cent depart  to  such  a  fate,  to  such  a  lot ! 

That  puzzled  her.  She  could  understand  the  acquies- 
cence of  the  others;  of  her  sister,  whom  M.  de  Vlaye's 
inconstanc}'  must  have  alienated,  of  Joyeuse,  who  was 
under  an  obligation  to  des  Ageaux,  of  the  Vicomte,  who, 
affecting  to  take  the  Countess's  part,  thought  in  truth 
only  of  himself.  But  Roger?  In  his  place  she  felt  that 
she  must  have  spoken  whatever  came  of  it,  that  she  must 
have  acted  whatever  the  issue. 

Yet  Roger,  noble,  generous  Roger — for  even  while  she 
blamed  him  with  one  half  of  her  mind,  she  blessed  him 
with  the  other — stood  silent. 

Silent,  even  when  the  Countess  with  a  quivering  lip  and 
a  fleeting  glance  in  his  direction — perhaps  she,  too,  had 
looked  for  something  else  at  his  hands — went  out,  her 
surrender  a  settled  thing;  and  it  became  necessary  to 
give  orders  to  her  servants,  to  communicate  with  the  Bat, 
and  to  make  such  preparations  as  the  withdrawal  of  her 
men  made  necessary.  The  Duke's  spears  were  expected 
that  day  or  the  next,  but  it  needed  no  sharp  eye  to  dis- 
cern that  Vlaye's  capture  of  the  Lieutenant  had  taken 


330  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

much  of  the  spirit  out  of  the  attack.  The  Countess's 
men  must  now  be  counted  on  the  Captain  of  Vlaye's  side; 
while  the  peasants,  weakened  by  the  slaughter  which 
Vlaye  had  inflicted  on  them  at  the  mill,  and  by  the  dis- 
trust which  their  treachery  must  cause,  no  longer  stood 
for  much  in  the  reckoning.  It  was  possible  that  the 
Lieutenant's  release  might  reanimate  the  forces  of  the 
law,  that  a  second  attem.pt  to  use  the  peasants  might 
fare  better  than  the  first,  that  Joyeuse's  aid  might  in 
time  place  des  Ageaux  in  a  position  to  cope  with  his  oppo- 
nent. But  these  were  possibilities  only,  and  the  Vicomte 
for  one  put  no  faith  in  them. 

He  was  utterly  disgusted,  indeed,  with  the  turn  which 
things  were  taking.  Nor  was  his  disgust  at  any  time 
greater  than  when  he  stood  an  hour  later  and  viewed 
the  Countess  and  her  escort  marching  out  of  the  camp. 
If  his  life  since  Coutras  had  been  obscure  and  ignoble, 
at  least  it  had  been  safe.  While  his  neighbours  had 
suffered  at  the  Captain  of  Vlaye's  hands,  he  had  been 
favoured.  He  had  sunk  something  of  his  pride,  and 
counted  in  return  on  an  alliance  for  his  daughter,  solid 
if  not  splendid.  Now,  by  the  act  of  this  meddling 
Lieutenant — for  he  ignored  A^laye's  treatment  both  of 
his  daughter  and  the  Countess — all  was  changed.  He 
had  naught  to  expect  now  but  Vlaye's  enmity;  Ville- 
neuve  would  no  longer  be  safe  for  him.  He  must  go 
or  he  must  humble  himself  to  the  ground.  He  had 
taken,  he  had  been  forced  by  his  children  to  take,  the 
wrong  side  in  the  struggle.  And  the  time  was  fast 
approaching  when  he  must  pay  for  it,  and  smartly. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE   ABBESS   MOVES. 


That  Bonne  failed  to  read  the  dark  scroll  of  her  sis- 
ter's thoughts  need  not  surprise  us ;  since  apart  from 
the  tie  of  blood  the  two  women  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon. But  that  she  failed  also  to  interpret  Roger's 
inaction;  that,  blaming  herself  for  an  acquiescence 
which  love  made  inevitable,  she  did  not  spare  him, 
whom  love  should  have  moved  in  the  opposite  direction 
— ^this  was  more  remarkable.  For  a  closer  bond  never 
united  brother  and  sister.  But  misery  is  a  grand 
engrosser.  She  had  her  lover  in  her  thoughts,  the 
poor  girl  whom  she  sacrificed  on  her  mind;  and  she 
left  the  Duke's  quarters  without  that  last  look  at  her 
brother  which  might  have  enlightened  her. 

Had  she  questioned  him  he  had  discovered  his  mind. 
She  did  not,  and  she  had  barely  passed  from  sight  before 
he  was  outside  and  had  got  a  fresh  horse  saddled.  One 
thing  only  it  was  prevented  his  leaving  the  camp  in 
advance  of  the  Countess,  whose  people  were  not  ready. 
His  foot  was  raised  to  the  stirrup  when  he  bethought 
him  of  this  thing.  He  left  the  horse  in  charge  of  a 
trooper  and  hurried  back  to  the  Duke's  quarters,  found 
him  alone  and  put  his  question. 

"You  made  a  man  fight  the  other  night  against  his 

331 


332  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

will,"  he  said,  his  head  high.  "Tell  me,  my  lord,  how 
I  can  do  the  same  thing." 

The  Duke  stared,  then  laughed.  "Is  it  that  you 
want?"  he  answered.  "Tell  me  first  whom  it  is  you 
would  fight,  my  lad?" 

"The  Captain  of  Vlaye." 

"Ah?" 

"You  said  a  while  ago,"  Roger  continued,  his  eyes 
sparkling,  "that  you  would  presently  make  her  a 
widow.     Better  a  widow  before  she  is  w^ed,  I  sayl" 

The  Duke  smiled  whimsically.  "Sits  the  wind  in 
that  quarter?"  he  answered.  "You  have  no  mind  to 
see  her  wed  at  all,  my  lad?  Tliat  is  it,  is  it?  I  had 
some  notion  of  it." 

"Tell  me  how  I  can  make  him  fight,"  Roger  replied, 
sticking  to  his  question  and  refusing  even  to  blush. 

"Tell  me  how  I  can  get  the  moon!"  Joyeuse  answered, 
but  not  unkindly.  "Why  should  he  risk  his  life  to  rid 
himself  of  you,  who  are  no  drawback  to  him?  Tell  me 
that!  Or  why  should  he  surrender  the  advantage  of 
his  strong  place  and  his  four  hundred  spears  to  enter 
the  lists  with  a  man  who  is  naught  to  him?" 

"Because  if  he  does  not  I  will  kiU  him  where  I  find 
him!"  Roger  replied  with  passion.  And  the  mode  of 
the  day,  which  was  not  nice  in  the  punctilios  of  the 
duel,  and  forgave  the  most  irregular  assault  if  it  were 
successful,  which  cast  small  blame  on  Guise  for  the 
murder  of  St.  Pol,  or  on  Montsoreau  for  the  murder 
of  Bussy,  justified  the  threat.  "I  wiU  kill  him!"  he 
repeated.     "Fair  or  foul,  light  or  dark " 

"He  shall  not  wed  her!"  the  Duke  cried  in  a  mock- 
ing tone  and  with  an  extravagant  gesture.  But  in 
truth  the  raillery  was  on  the  surface  only.    The  lad's 


THE  ABBESS  MOVES.  333 

spirit  touched  the  corresponding  note  in  his  own  nature. 
None  the  less  he  shook  his  head.  "Brave  words,  brave 
words,  young  man,"  he  continued;  "but  you  are  not 
Vitaux,  who  counted  his  hfe  for  nothing,  and  wnose 
sword  was  a  terror  to  all." 

"But  if  I  count  my  life  for  nothing?" 

"Ay,  if!     If!" 

"And  why  should  I  not?"  Roger  retorted,  his  soul 
rising  to  his  hps.  "Tell  me,  my  lord,  why  should  I 
count  it  for  more?  What  am  I,  the  son  of  a  poor 
gentleman,  misshapen,  rough,  untutored,  that  I  should 
hold  my  life  dear?  That  I  should  spare  it,  and  save  it, 
as  a  thing  so  valuable?  What  have  I  in  prospect  of 
all  the  things  other  men  look  to?  Glory?  See  me! 
Fine  I  should  be,"  with  a  bitter  laugh  covering  tears,  "in 
a  triumph,  or  marching  up  the  aisle  to  a  Te  Deum! 
Court  favour?  Ay,  I  might  be  the  dwarf  in  a  masque 
or  the  fool  in  motley!  Naught  besides!  Naught 
besides,  my  lord!  And  for  love?"  He  laughed  still 
more  bitterly,  "I  tell  you  my  own  father  winces 
when  he  sees  me !  My  own  sister  and  my  own  brother — 
well,  they  are  bHnd  perhaps.  They,  they  only,  and  old 
Solomon,  and  the  woman  who  nursed  me  and  dropped 
me — see  in  me  a  man  like  other  men.  Leave  them 
out,  and,  as  I  hve,  until  this  man  came " 

"Des  Ageaux?" 

"Des  Ageaux — until  he  came  and  spoke  gently  to 
me  and  said,  'do  this,  and  do  that,  and  you  shall  be 
as  Gourdon  or  as  Guesclin ! ' — even  he  could  not  promise 
me  love — as  I  live,  till  then  no  man  pitied  me  or  gave 
me  hope !  And  shall  I  let  him  die  to  save  my  stunted 
life?" 

"But  it  is  not  the  saving  him  that  is  in  question," 


334  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

the  Duke  replied  gently,  and  with  respect  in  his  tone. 
He  was  honestly  moved  by  this  unveiling  of  poor 
Roger's  thoughts,     "She  saved  him." 

''And  I'll  save  her,"  Roger  replied  with  fervour.  "I 
will  save  her  though  I  die  a  hundred  deaths.  For  she, 
too " 

He  paused.  The  Duke  looked  at  him,  a  spice  of 
humour  mingling  with  his  sympathy.  "She,  too,  sees 
in  you  a  man  Hke  other  men,"  he  said,  "1  sup- 
pose?" 

"She  pitied  me,"  Roger  answered.  "No  more;  she 
pitied  me,  my  lord!  What  more  could  she  do,  being 
what  she  is?  And  I  being  what  I  am?"  His  chin  sank 
on  his  breast. 

The  Duke  nodded  kindly.  "May-be,"  he  said.  "  Less 
Hkely  things  have  happened."  And  then,  "But  what 
will  you  do?"  he  asked. 

"Go  with  her  and  see  him,  take  him  aside,  and  if  he 
will  fight  me,  well !  And  if  he  will  not,  I  will  strike  him 
down  where  he  stands!" 

"But  that  will  not  save  des  Ageaux." 

"No?" 

"No!  On  the  contrary,  it  Tvill  be  he,"  Joyeuse  re- 
torted somewhat  grimly,  "who  will  pay  for  it.  Do 
you  not  see  that?" 

"Then  I  will  wait,"  Roger  rephed,  "until  he  is 
released." 

"And  then,"  the  Duke  asked,  still  opposing,  though 
the  man  and  the  plan  were  alike  after  liis  own  heart, 
"what  of  the  Countess?  M.  de  Vlaye  dead,  who  will 
protect  her?    His  men " 

"They  would  not  dare!"  Roger  cried,  trembling. 
"They  would  not  dare!" 


THE  ABBESS  MOVES.  335 

"Well,  perhaps  not,"  the  Duke  answered,  after  a 
moment's  thought.  "Perhaps  not.  Probably  his  lieu- 
tenant would  protect  her,  for  his  own  sake.  And  des 
Ageaux  free  would  be  worth  two  hundred  men  to  us. 
Not  that,  if  I  were  well,  he  would  be  in  question.  But 
I  am  but  half  a  man,  and  we  need  him!" 

"You  shall  have  him,"  Roger  answered,  his  eyes 
glittering.  "Have  no  doubt  of  it!  But  advise  me, 
my  lord.  Were  it  better  I  escorted  her  to  the  gate 
and  sought  entrance  later,  after  he  had  released  des 
Ageaux?  Or  that  I  kept  myself  close  until  the  time 
came?  " 

"The  time?    For  what?" 

The  speaker  was  the  Abbess.  Unseen  by  the  two 
men,  she  had  that  moment  glided  across  the  threshold. 
The  pallor  of  her  features  and  the  brightness  of  her  eyes 
were  such  as  to  strike  both;  but  differently.  To  the 
Duke  these  results  of  a  night  passed  in  vivid  emotions, 
and  of  a  morning  that  had  crowned  her  schemies  with 
mockery,  only  brought  her  into  nearer  keeping  with 
the  dress  she  wore — only  enhanced  her  charms.  To 
her  brother,  on  the  other  hand,  who  now  hated  Vlaye 
with  a  tenfold  hatred,  they  were  grounds  for  suspicion — 
he  knew  not  why.  But  not  even  he  came  nearer  to 
guessing  the  truth.  Not  even  he  dreamt  that  behind 
that  mask  were  passions  at  work  which,  had  they  dis- 
covered them,  would  have  cast  the  Duke  into  a  stupor 
deeper  than  any  into  which  his  own  mad  freaks  had 
ever  flung  a  wondering  world.  As  it  was,  the  Duke's 
eyes  saw  only  the  perfection  of  womankind;  the  lily 
of  the  garden,  drooping,  pale,  under  the  woes  of  her 
frailer  sisters.  Of  the  jealousy  with  which  she  con- 
templated  the  surrender  of  her  rival  to   her  lover's 


336  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

power,  much  less  of  the  step  which  that  surrender 
was  pressing  upon  her,  lie  caught  no  glimpse. 

"The  time  for  what?"  the  Duke  repeated,  with 
looks  courteous  to  the  point  of  reverence.  "Ah — 
pardon,  my  sister,  but  we  cannot  take  you  into  our 
counsel.  Men  must  sometimes  do  things  it  is  not  for 
saints  to  know  or  women  to  witness." 

"Saints!"  The  involuntary  irony  of  her  tone  must 
have  penetrated  ears  less  dulled  by  prejudgment. 
"Saints!"  and  then,  "I  am  no  saint,  my  lord,"  she 
said  modestly. 

"Still,"  he  answered,  "  it  were  better  you  did  not 
know,  mademoiselle.  It  is  but  a  plan  by  which  we 
think  it  possible  that  we  may  yet  get  the  better  of 
M.  de  Vlaye  and  save  the  child  before — before,  in 
fact " 

"  Ay?"  the  Abbess  said,  a  flicker  of  pain  in  her  eyes. 
"  Before — I  understand." 

"Before  it  be  too  late." 

"Yes.     And  how?" 

The  Duke  shook  his  head  with  a  smile  meant  to  pro- 
pitiate. "How?"  he  repeated.  "That — pardon  me — 
that  is  the  point  upon  which — we  would  fam  be  silent. " 

"Yet  you  must  not  be  silent,"  she  replied.  "You 
must  tell  me."  And  pale,  almost  stern,  she  looked 
from  one  to  the  other,  dominating  them,  "You  must 
tell  me,"  she  repeated.  "Or  perhaps,"  fixing  Roger 
with  a  glance  keen  as  steel,  "I  Imow  already.  You 
would  save  her  by  killing  him.  It  is  of  that  you  are 
thinking.  It  is  for  that  your  horse  is  waiting  saddled 
by  the  gate.  You  would  ride  after  her,  and  gain  access 
to  lum — and " 

"She  has  not  started?"  Roger  exclaimed. 


THE  ABBESS  MOVES.  837 

"She  started  ten  minutes  ago,"  the  Abbess  answered 
coldly.  "Nay,  stay!"  For  Roger  was  making  for  the 
door.     "Stay,  boy!    Do  you  hear?" 

"I  cannot  stay!" 

"If  you  do  not  stay  you  will  repent  it  all  your  life!" 
the  Abbess  made  answer  in  a  voice  that  shook  even  his 
resolution.  "And  she  all  hers!  Ha!  that  stays  you?" 
with  a  gleam  of  passion  she  could  not  restrain.  "I 
thought  it  would.  Now,  if  you  will  listen,  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  that  will  put  another  complexion  on 
this." 

They  gazed  expectant,  but  she  did  not  at  once  con- 
tinue. She  stood  reflecting  deeply;  while  each  of  her 
listeners  regarded  her  after  his  knowledge  of  her; 
Roger  sullenly  and  with  suspicion,  doubting  what  she 
would  be  at,  the  Duke  m  admiration,  expecting  that 
with  which  gentle  wisdom  might  inspire  her. 

Secretly  she  was  heart-sick,  and  the  sigh  which  she 
could  not  restrain  declared  it.  But  at  last,  "There  is 
no  need  of  violence,"  she  said  wearily.  "No,"  ad- 
dressing Roger,  who  had  raised  his  hand  in  remon- 
strance, "hear  me  out  before  you  interrupt  me.  How 
will  the  loss  of  a  minute  harm  you?  Or  of  five  or  ten? 
I  repeat,  there  is  no  need  of  violence.  Heaven  knows 
there  has  been  enough!  We  must  go  another  way  to 
work  to  release  her.     It  is  my  turn  now." 

"I  would  rather  trust  myself,"  Roger  muttered;  but 
so  low  that  the  words,  frank  to  mdeness,  did  not  reach 
Joyeuse's  ears. 

"Yet  you  must  trust  me,"  she  answered.  "Do  so, 
tmst  me,  and  follow  my  directions,  and  I  will  take  on 
myself  to  say  that  before  nightfall  she  shall  be  free." 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  the  Duke  asked. 


338         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"You?  Nothing.  I,  all.  I  must  take  her  place,  as 
she  has  taken  M.  des  Ageaux'." 

For  an  instant  they  were  silent  in  sheer  astonishment. 
Then,  "But  M.  de  Vlaye  may  have  something  to  say  to 
that!"  Roger  ejaculated  before  the  Duke  could  find 
words.  The  lad  spoke  on  impulse.  He  knew  a  little 
and  suspected  more  of  the  lengths  to  which  Vlaye's 
courtship  of  his  sister  had  gone. 

If  she  had  not  put  force  on  herself,  she  had  flung  him 
a  retort  that  must  have  opened  the  Duke's  eyes.  In- 
stead, "I  shall  not  consult  M.  de  Vlaye,"  she  replied 
coldly.  "I  have  visited  him  on  various  occasions,  and 
we  are  on  terms.  My  appearance  in  Vlaye,  seeing  that 
the  Abbey  of  Vlaye  is  but  a  half-league  from  the  town, 
will  cause  no  surprise.  Once  in  the  town,  if  I  can  enter 
the  castle  and  gain  speech  of  the  Countess,  she  may 
escape  in  my  habit." 

"I  hate  this  shifting  and  changing!"  Roger  grumbled. 

"But  if  it  will  save  her?" 

"Ay,  but  will  it?"  Roger  returned,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  He  suspected  that  her  aim  was  to  save 
M.  de  Vlaye  rather  than  the  Countess.  "Will  it?  Can 
you,  in  the  first  place,  get  speech  of  her?" 

"I  think  I  can,"  the  Abbess  answered  quietly. 
"Many  of  the  men  know  me.  And  I  will  take  with  me 
Father  Benet,  who  is  at  the  Captain  of  Vlaye's  beck 
and  call.  He  Tvill  serve  me  within  limits,  if  a  friend  be 
needed.  I  shall  wear  my  robes,  and  though  she  is 
shorter  and  smaller  I  see  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
pass  out  in  them  in  the  twilight  or  after  dark." 

"But  what  of  you?"  the  Duke  asked,  staring  much. 

"I  shall  remain  in  her  place." 

"Remain  in  her  place?"  Joyeuse  said  slowly,  in  the 


THE  ABBESS  MOVES.  339 

voice  he  would  have  used  had  Our  Lady  appeared  before 
him.     "You  will  dare  that  for  her?" 

A  faint  colour  stole  into  the  Abbess's  cheeks.  "It  is 
my  expiation,"  she  murmured  modestly.  "I  struck  her 
— God  forgive  me!" 

"But " 

"And  I  run  no  risk.  M.  de  Vlaye  knows  me,  and 
this" — with  a  gesture  which  drew  attention  to  her  con- 
ventual garb — "will  protect  me." 

The  Duke  gazed  at  the  object  of  his  adoration  in  a 
kind  of  rapture,  seeing  already  the  wings  on  her 
shoulders,  the  aureole  about  her  head.  "Mademoiselle, 
you  will  do  that?"  he  cried.  "Then  you  are  no  woman ! 
You  are  an  angel!"  In  his  enthusiasm  he  knelt — not 
without  difficulty,  for  he  was  still  weak — and  kissed  her 
hand.  To  him  the  thing  seemed  an  act  of  pure  heroism, 
pure  self-denial,  pure  good-doing. 

But  Roger,  who  knew  more  of  his  sister's  nature  and 
past  history,  and  whose  knowledge  left  less  room  for 
fancy's  gilding,  stood  lost  in  gloomy  thought.  Wliat 
did  she  mean?  Was  she  going  as  friend  or  enemy? 
Influence  with  Vlaye  she  had,  or  lately  had;  but,  the 
Countess  released,  in  what  a  position  would  she,  his 
sister,  stand?  Could  he,  could  her  father,  could  her 
friends  let  her  do  this  thing? 

Yet  the  chance — to  a  lover — ^was  too  good  to  reject; 
the  position,  moreover,  was  too  desperate  for  niceties. 
The  thought  that  she  was  going,  not  for  the  sake  of 
the  Countess,  but  of  the  Captain  of  Vlaye,  the  suspicion 
that  she  was  not  unwilling  to  take  the  Countess's  place 
and  the  Countess's  risks,  occurred  to  him.  But  he 
thrust,  he  strove  to  thrust  the  suspicion  and  the  thought 
from  him.     Her  motive  and  her  meaning,  even  though 


340  THE  ABBESS  OP  VLAYE. 

that  motive  and  meaning  were  to  save  the  Captain  of 
Vlaye,  were  small  things  beside  the  Countess's  safety. 

"At  any  rate  I  shall  go  with  you/' he  said  at  length, 
and  with  more  of  suspicion  than  of  gratitude  in  his  tone. 
"  When  will  you  be  ready?" 

"I  think  it  likely  that  he  will  have  bidden  Father  Benet 
to  be  with  him  at  sunset,"  she  answered.  "  If  we  are  at 
the  priest's,  therefore,  an  hour  earlier,  it  should  do." 

"And  for  safe-conduct?" 

"I  will  answer  for  that,"  she  replied  with  boldness, 
"so  far  as  M.  de  Vlaye 's  men  are  concerned." 

Tlie  answer  chafed  Roger  anew.  Her  reliance  on  her 
influence  with  Vlaye  and  Vlaye 's  people — he  hated  it; 
and  for  an  instant  he  hesitated.  But  in  the  end  he  swal- 
lowed his  vexation:  had  he  not  made  up  his  mind  to 
shut  his  eyes?  And  the  three  separated  after  a  few  more 
words  relating  to  the  arrangements  to  be  made.  The 
Duke,  standing  with  a  full  heart  in  the  doorway,  watched 
her  to  her  quarters,  marked  the  grace  of  her  movements, 
and  in  his  mind  doomed  the  Captain  of  Vlaye  to  un- 
speakable deaths  if  he  harmed  her;  while  she,  as  she 
passed  away,  thought — ^but  we  need  not  enter  into  her 
thoughts.  She  was  doing  this,  lest  a  worse  thing  hap- 
pen;  doing  it  in  a  passion  of  jealousy,  in  a  frenzy  of  dis- 
gust. But  she  had  one  consolation.  She  would  see  the 
Captain  of  Vlaye!  She  would  see  the  man  she  loved. 
'Through  the  dark  stuff  of  her  thoughts  that  prospect  ran 
like  a  golden  thread. 

Roger,  on  the  other  hand,  should  have  been  content. 
He  should  have  been  more  than  satisfied,  as  an  hour  later 
he  rode  beside  her  down  the  river  valley  to  the  chapel 
beside  the  ford,  and  thence  to  the  open  country  about 
Villeneuve.     For  if  things  were  still  dark,  there  was  a 


THE  ABBESS  MOVES.  341 

prospect  of  light.  A  few  hours  earher  he  had  despaired ; 
he  had  seen  no  means  of  saving  the  woman  he  adored, 
save  at  the  expense  of  his  own  hfe.  Now  he  had  hope 
and  a  chance,  now  he  liad  prospects,  now  he  might  look, 
if  fortune  favoured  him,  to  be  her  escort  into  safety  be- 
fore the  sun  rose  again. 

Surely,  then,  he  should  have  been  content;  yet  he  was 
not.  Not  even  when  after  a  journey  of  four  hours  the 
two,  having  passed  Villeneuve,  gained  v.'ithout  misad- 
venture the  summit  of  that  hill  on  the  scarped  side  of 
which  the  Countess  had  met  witli  her  first  misfortune. 
Froni  that  point,  they  and  the  two  armed  servants  who 
followed  them  could  look  down  upon  the  wide  green 
valley  that  framed  the  town  of  Vlaye,  and  that,  some- 
what lower,  opened  into  the  wide  plain  of  the  Dronne. 
They  could  discern  the  bridge  over  the  river ;  they  could 
almost  count  the  red  roofs  of  the  small  town  that  crept 
up  from  the  water  to  the  coronet  of  grey  walls  and 
towers  that  crowned  all.  Those  walls  and  towers  bask- 
ing in  the  sunshine  were  the  eyrie  that  lorded  it  over 
leagues  of  country  seen  and  unseen — the  hawk's  nest, 
the  plehis  flagellum,  as  the  old  chronicler  has  it.  They 
might,  in  sight  of  those  towers,  count  the  preliminaries 
over  and  all  but  the  supreme  risk  nm. 

For  quite  easily  they  might  have  fallen  in  with  Vlaye 's 
people  on  the  road  and  been  taken;  or  with  M.  de  Vlaye 
himself,  and  with  that  there  had  been  an  end  of  the  plan. 
But  they  had  escaped  these  dangers.  And  yet  Roger 
was  not  content;  still  he  rode  with  a  gloomy  brow  and 
pinched  lips.  The  longer  he  thought  of  his  sister's  plan, 
the  more  he  suspected  and  the  less  he  liked  it.  There 
was  in  it  a  little  which  he  did  not  understand,  and  more 
which  he  imderstood  too  well.     His  sister  and  M.  de 


342  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAl^E. 

Vlaye!  He  hated  the  collocation;  he  hated  to  think 
that  she  must  be  left,  willingly  and  by  her  own  act,  in 
the  adventurer's  power;  and  this  at  a  moment  when  dis- 
appointment would  aggravate  a  temper  tried  by  the 
attack  on  liim  and  by  the  part  which  the  Vicomte  had 
played  in  it.  On  what  did  she  depend  for  her  safety, 
for  her  honour,  for  all  that  she  put  wantonly  at  stake? 
On  his  respect?    His  friendsliip?    Or  his  love? 

' ' I  will  take  her  place, "  she  had  said.  Could  it  be  that 
she  was  willing,  that  she  desired,  to  take  it  altogether? 
Was  she,  after  the  rebuffs,  after  the  scornful  and  con- 
tumehous  slight  which  M.  de  Vlaye  had  put  upon  her, 
willing  still  to  seek  him,  wiUing  still  to  be  in  his  power? 

It  seemed  so.  Certainly  it  could  not  be  denied  that 
she  was  seeking  him,  and  that  he,  her  brother,  was  es- 
corting her.  In  that  light  people  would  look  upon  his 
action. 

The  thought  stung  him,  and  he  halted  midway  on  the 
woodland  track  that  descended  the  farther  side  of  the 
hill.  His  face  wore  a  mixture  of  shame  and  appeal — 
with  iU-humour  underlying  both.  "See  here,  Odette, '^ 
he  said  abruptly,  "I  do  not  see  the  end  of  this." 

Though  she  raised  her  eyebrows  contemptuously,  a 
faint  tinge  of  colour  crept  into  her  face. 

"I  thought,"  she  rephed,  "that  the  end  was  to  save 
this  little  fool  who  is  too  weak  to  save  herself!" 

"But  you?" 

"Oh,  for  me?"  contemptuously.  "Take  no  heed  of 
me.  I  am  of  other  stuff,  and  can  manage  my  own  af- 
fairs." 

"You  think  so,"  he  retorted.  "But  the  Captain  of 
Vlaye,  he,  too,  is  of  other  stuff." 

"Do  you  fancy  I  am  afraid  of  M.  de  Vlaye?"  she 


THE  ABBESS  MOVES.  343 

answered.  And  her  eyes  flashed  scorn  on  him.  ''You 
may  be!  You  should  be!"  with  a  glance  which  marked 
his  deformity  and  stabbed  the  sense  of  it  deep  into  his 
heart.  "How  should  you  be  otherwise,  seeing  that  in  no 
circumstances  could  you  be  a  match  for  him!  But  I? 
I  say  again  that  I  am  of  other  stuff." 

"AU  the  same,"  he  muttered  darkly,  "I  would   not 
go  on " 


"Would  not  go  on?"  she  retorted  in  mockery. 
"Not  with  your  sweet  Countess  in  danger?  Not  with 
the  dear  light  of  your  eyes  in  Vlaye's  arms?  Not  go 
on?  Oh,  brave  lover!  Oh,  brave  man!  Not  go  on, 
and  your  Countess,  your  pretty  Countess " 

"Be  silent!"  he  cried.     She  stung  him  to  rage. 

"Ah!    We  go  back  then?" 

But  he  could  not  face  that,  he  could  not  say  yes  to 
that;  and,  defeated,  he  turned  in  dumb  sullen  anger 
and  resumed  the  road. 

Necessarily  the  danger  of  arrest  increased  as  they 
approached  the  towTi.  The  last  mile,  which  brought 
them  to  the  bridge  over  the  river,  was  traversed  under 
the  eyes  of  the  castle;  it  would  not  have  surprised 
Roger  had  they  been  met  and  stopped  long  before  they 
came  to  the  town  gate.  But  the  Captain  of  Vlaye,  it 
seemed,  held  the  danger  still  remote,  and  troubled  his 
followers  with  few  precautions.  The  place  lay  drows- 
ing in  the  late  heat  of  the  summer  afternoon.  It  was 
still  as  the  dead,  and  though  their  approach  was  doubt- 
less seen  and  noted,  no  one  issued  forth  or  challenged 
them.  Even  the  men  who  lounged  in  the  shade  of  the 
low-browed  archway — that  still  bore  the  scutcheon  of 
its  ancient  lords — contented  themselves  with  a  long 
stare  and  a  sulky  salute.    The  bridge  passed,  a  narrow 


344  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

street  paved  and  steep,  and  overhung  by  ancient 
houses  of  brick  and  timber,  opened  before  them.  It 
led  upwards  in  the  direction  of  the  castle,  but  after  pur- 
suing it  in  single  file  some  fifty  paces,  the  Abbess  turned 
from  it  into  a  narrow  lane  that  brought  them  in  a 
bow-shot — for  the  town  was  very  small — to  the  wall 
again.  This  was  their  present  destination.  For 
crowded  into  an  angle  of  the  wall  under  the  shadow 
of  one  of  the  old  brick  watch-towers  stood  the  chapel 
and  cell  that  owned  the  lax  rule  of  M.  de  \laye's  chap- 
lain, Father  Benet. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE    CASTLE   OF   VLAYE. 

Roger  had  little  faith  in  the  priest's  power,  and  less 
in  his  wiUingness  to  aid  them.  But  at  worst  he  was 
not  to  be  kept  in  suspense.  By  good  luck,  Father 
Benet  was  walking  at  the  moment  of  their  arrival  in 
his  potherb  garden.  As  they  dismounted,  they  espied 
the  Father  peeping  at  them  between  the  tall  sunflowers 
and  budding  hollyhocks;  his  ruddy  face  something 
dismayed  and  fallen,  and  his  mien  that  of  a  portly 
man  caught  in  the  act  of  wrong-doing.  Finding  him- 
self detected,  he  came  forward  with  an  awkward  show 
of  joviality. 

"Welcome,  sister,"  he  said.  "There  is  naught  the 
matter  at  the  Abbey,  I  trust,  that  I  see  you  thus  late 
in  the  day?" 

"No,  the  matter  is  here,"  the  Abbess  repUed,  with  a 
look  in  her  eyes  that  told  him  she  knew  all.  "And 
we  are  here  to  see  about  it.  Let  us  in,  Father.  The 
time  is  short,  for  at  any  moment  your  master" — she 
indicated  the  castle  by  a  gesture— "may  hear  of  our 
arrival  and  send  for  us." 

"I  am  sure,"  the  priest  answered  ghbly,  "that  any- 
thing that  I  can  do  for  you,  sister " 

345 


346  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

She  cut  him  short.  "No  words,  no  words,  but  let  us 
in!"  she  said  sharply.  And  when  udth  pursed  hps 
and  a  shrug  of  resignation  he  had  comphed,  and  they 
stood  in  the  cool  stone-floored  room — communicating 
by  an  open  door  with  the  chapel — in  which  he  received 
his  visitors,  she  came  with  the  same  abruptness  to  the 
point. 

"At  what  hour  are  you  going  up  to  the  castle?" 
she  asked. 

He  tried  to  avoid  her  eyes,  "To  the  castle?"  he 
repeated. 

"Ay,"  she  said,  watching  him  keenly.  "To  the 
castle.  Are  there  more  castles  than  one?  Or  first, 
when  were  you  there  last.  Father?" 

His  look  wandered,  full  of  calculation.  "Last?"  he 
said.     "When  was  I  at  the  castle  last?" 

"The  truth!    The  truth!"  she  cried  impatiently. 

He  chid  her,  but  with  a  propitiatory  smile  akin  to 
those  which  the  augurs  exchanged.  "Sister!  Sister!" 
he  said.  "  Nil  nisi  verum  clericus!  I  was  there  no 
more  than  an  hour  back." 

"And  got  your  orders?  And  got  your  orders,  I  sup- 
pose?" she  repeated  with  rude  insistence.  "Out  with 
it.  Father.  I  see  that  you  are  no  more  easy  than  I 
am!" 

He  flung  out  his  hands  in  sudden  abandonment. 
"God  knows  I  am  not!"  he  said.  "God  knows  I  am 
not!  And  that  is  the  truth,  and  I  am  not  hiding  it. 
God  knows  I  am  not!  But  what  am  I  to  do?  He  is  a 
violent  man — you  know  him ! — and  I  am  a  man  of  peace. 
I  must  do  his  will  or  go.  And  I  am  better  than  nothing! 
I  may" — there  was  a  whine  in  his  voice — "I  may  do 
some  good  still.    You  know  that,  sister.     I  may  do  some 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VLAYE.  347 

good.     I  baptise.     I  bury.     But  if  I  go,  there  is  no 
one." 

"And  if  you  go,  you  are  no  one,"  she  answered  keenly. 
"For  your  suffragan  has  you  in  no  good  favour,  I  am 
told.  So  that  if  you  go  you  happen  on  but  a  sack- 
cloth welcome.  So  it  is  said.  Father.  I  know  not  if 
it  be  said  truly." 

"Untruly!  Untruly!"  he  protested  earnestly.  "He 
has  never  found  fault  with  me,  sister,  on  good  occasion. 
But  I  have  enemies,  all  men  have  enemies " 

"You  are  like  to  make  more,"  Roger  struck  in,  with 
a  dark  look. 

The  priest  wrung  his  hands.  "I  know!  I  know!" 
he  said.  "He  carries  it  too  highly.  Too  highly!  They 
say  that  he  has  caught  the  King's  governor  now,  and 
has  him  in  keeping  there." 

"It  is  true." 

"  Well,  I  have  warned  him ;  he  cannot  say  I  have  not !" 

"And  what  said  he  to  your  warning?"  the  Abbess 
asked  with  a  sneer, 

"He  threatened  me  with  the  stirrup  leathers." 

"And  you  are  now  to  marry  him?" 

He  turned  a  shade  paler.  "You  know  it?"  he 
gasped. 

"I  know  it,  but  not  the  time,"  she  answered.  And 
as  he  hesitated,  silent  and  appalled,  "Come,"  she  con- 
tinued, "the  truth.  Father.  And  then  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  am  going  to  do." 

"At  sunset,"  he  muttered,  "I  am  to  be  there." 

"Good,"  she  said.  "Now  we  know.  Then  you  will 
go  up  an  hour  earlier.     And  I  shall  go  with  you," 

He  protested  feebly.  He  knew  something  of  that 
which  had  gone  before,  something  of  her  history,  some- 


348  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

thing  of  her  passion  for  the  Captain  of  Vlaye;  and  he 
was  sure  that  she  was  not  bent  on  good.  " I  dare  not!" 
he  said,  "I  dare  not,  sister!    You  ask  too  much." 

"Dare  not  what?"  the  Abbess  retorted,  bending  her 
handsome  brows  in  wrath.  "Dare  not  go  one  hour 
earher?" 

"But  you — you  want  to  go?" 

"If  I  go  with  you,  what  is  that  to  you?" 

"But " 

"But  what.  Father,  but  what?" 

"You  want  somethmg  of  me?"  he  faltered.  He  was 
not  to  be  deceived.  "Something  dangerous,  I  know 
it!" 

"I  want  your  company  to  the  door  of  the  room  where 
she  lies,"  the  Abbess  repHed.  "That  is  all.  You  have 
leave  to  visit  her?  Do  not" — overwhelming  him  with 
swift  fierce  words — "deny  it.  Do  not  tell  me  that  you 
have  not!  Think  you  I  do  not  know  you,  Father? 
Thmk  you  I  do  not  know  how  well  you  are  with  him, 
how  late  you  sit  with  him,  how  deep  you  drink  with  him, 
when  he  lacks  better  company?  And  that  this — 
though  you  are  frightened  now,  and  would  fain  be  clear 
of  it,  knowing  who  she  is — is  the  thing  which  you  have 
vowed  to  do  for  him  a  hundred  times  and  a  hundred 
times  to  that,  if  it  would  help  him!" 

"Never!    Never!"  he  protested,  paler  than  before. 

"Father,"  she  retorted,  stooping  forward  and  speak- 
ing low,  "be  warned.  Be  warned!  Get  you  a  foot  in 
the  other  camp  while  you  may!  You  are  over-well 
fed  for  the  dry  crust  and  the  sack  bed  of  the  bishop's 
prison!  You  drink  too  much  red  wine  to  take  kindly 
to  the  moat  puddle!  And  that  not  for  months,  but 
for  years  and  years!    Have  you  not  heard  of  men  who 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VLAYE.  349 

lay  forgotten,  ay,  forgotten  even  by  their  gaoler  at 
last,  until  they  starved  in  the  bishop's  prison?  The 
bishop's  prison,  Father!"  she  continued  cruelly.  "Who 
comes  out  thence,  but  the  rats,  and  they  fat?  Who 
comes  out  thence " 

"Don't!  Don't!"  the  priest  cried,  his  complexion 
mottled,  his  flabby  cheeks  trembUng  with  fear  of  the 
thing  which  her  words  called  up,  with  fear  of  the  thing 
that  had  often  kept  him  quaking  in  the  night  hours. 
"You  will  not  do  it?" 

"I?"  she  answered  drily,  "No,  not  I  perhaps.  But 
is  a  Countess  of  Rochechouart  to  be  abducted  so  lightly, 
or  so  easily?  Has  she  so  few  friends?  So  poor  a  kin- 
dred? A  cousin  there  is,  I  think — my  lord  Bishop  of 
Comminges — who  has  one  of  those  very  prisons.  And, 
if  I  mistake  not,  she  has  another  cousin,  who  is  in 
Flanders  now,  but  will  know  well  how  to  avenge  her 
when  he  returns." 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  faltered. 

"Go  with  me  to  her  door — that  I  may  gain  admis- 
sion. Then,  whether  you  go  to  him  or  not,  your  si- 
lence, for  one  half -hour. " 

"You  will  not  do  her  any  harm?"  he  muttered. 

"Fool,  it  is  to  do  her  good  I  am  here." 

"And  that  is  all?    You  swear  it?" 

"That  is  all." 

He  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "I  will  do  it,"  he  said.  He 
wiped  his  brow  with  the  sleeve  of  his  cassock.  "I  will 
doit." 

"You  are  wise,"  she  replied,  "and  wise  in  time, 
Father,  for  it  is  time  we  went.  The  sun  is  within  an 
hour  of  setting."  Then,  turning  to  Roger,  who  had 
never  ceased  to  watch  the  priest  as  a  cat  watches  a 


350  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

mouse,  "The  horses  may  wait  in  the  lane  or  where  you 
please,"  she  said.  "They  are  hidden  from  the  castle 
where  they  stand,  and  perhaps  they  are  best  there.  In 
any  case" — with  a  meaning  glance — "I  return  to  this 
spot.  Expect  me  in  half  an  hour.  After  that,  the 
rest  is  for  you  to  contrive.     I  wash  my  hands  of  it." 

The  words  in  which  he  would  have  assented  stuck  in 
the  lad's  throat.  He  could  not  speak.  She  turned 
again  to  the  priest.  "One  moment  and  I  am  ready," 
she  said,     "Have  you  a  mirror?" 

"A  mirror?"  he  exclaimed  in  astonishment. 

' '  But  of  course  you  have  not , ' '  she  replied .  She  looked 
about  her  an  instant,  then  with  a  quick  step  she  passed 
through  the  doorway  into  the  chapel.  There  her  eye 
had  caught  a  polished  sheet  of  brass,  recording  in  monk- 
ish Latin  the  virtues  of  that  member  of  the  old  family 
who  had  founded  this  "  Capella  extra  muros,"  as  ancient 
deeds  style  it.  She  placed  herself  before  the  tablet, 
and  paying  as  little  heed  to  her  brother  or  the  priest — 
though  they  were  within  sight — as  to  the  sacred  emblems 
about  her,  or  the  scene  in  wliich  she  stood,  she  cast  back 
her  hood,  and  drew  from  her  robes  a  small  ivory  case. 
From  this  she  took  a  morsel  of  sponge,  and  a  tiny  comb, 
also  of  ivory;  and  with  water  taken  from  the  stoup 
beside  the  door,  she  refreshed  her  face,  and  carefully 
recurled  the  short  ringlets  upon  her  forehead.  With  a 
pencil  drawn  from  the  same  case,  she  retouched  her  eye- 
lashes and  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  and  with  deft  fingers 
she  straightened  and  smoothed  the  small  ruff  about  her 
neck.  Finally,  with  no  less  care,  she  drew  the  hood  of 
her  habit  close  round  her  face,  and  after  turning  herself 
about  a  time  or  two  before  the  mirror  went  back  to  the 
others.    They  had  not  taken  their  eyes  off  her. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VLAYE.  351 

"Come,"  she  said.  And  she  led  the  way  out  without 
a  second  word,  passed  by  the  waiting  horses  and  the 
servants,  and,  attended  by  the  rehictant  Father,  walked 
at  a  gentle  pace  along  the  lane  towards  the  main 
street. 

The  priest  went  in  fear,  his  stout  legs  trembling  under 
him.  But  until  the  two  reached  a  triangular  open  space, 
graced  by  an  Italian  fountain,  and  used,  though  it  sloped 
steeply,  for  a  market  site,  the  street  the}^  pursued  was 
not  exposed  to  view  from  the  castle.  Above  the  market- 
place, however,  the  road  turned  abruptly  to  the  left, 
and,  emerging  from  the  houses,  ascended  between  twin 
mounds,  of  which  the  nearer  bore  the  castle,  and  the 
other,  used  on  occasion  as  a  tilt-yard,  was  bare.  The 
road  ascended  the  gorge  between  the  two,  then  wound 
about,  this  tune  to  the  right,  and  gained  the  summit  of 
the  unoccupied  breast;  whence,  leaping  its  own  course 
by  a  drawbridge,  it  entered  the  grey  stronghold  that  on 
every  other  side  looked  down  from  the  brow  of  a  preci- 
pice— ^here  on  the  clustering  roofs  of  the  town,  and 
there,  and  there  again,  on  the  wide  green  vale  and  sil- 
very meanders  of  the  Dronne. 

Looking  to  the  south,  where  tne  valley  opened  into  a 
plain,  the  eye  might  almost  discern  Coutras — that  famous 
battlefield  that  lies  on  the  Dronne  bank.  Northward  it 
encountered  the  wooded  hills  beyond  which  lay  Ville- 
neuve,  and  the  town  of  Barbesieux  on  the  great  north 
road,  and  the  plain  towards  Angouleme.  Fairer  eyrie,  or 
stronger,  is  scarce  to  be  found  in  the  width  of  three 
provinces. 

Until  they  came  to  the  market-place  the  Abbess  and 
her  unwilling  companion  had  little  to  fear  unless  they 
met  M.  de  Vlaye  himself.     As  far  as  others  w^ere  con- 


352  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

cerned,  Father  Benet's  coarse,  plump  face,  albeit  less 
ruddy  than  ordinary,  was  warrant  enough  to  avert  both 
suspicion  and  inquiry.  But  thence  onwards  they  walked 
in  full  view  not  only  of  the  lounge  upon  the  ramparts 
which  the  Captain  of  \^aye  most  affected  at  the  cool 
hour,  but  of  a  dozen  lofty  casements  from  any  one  of 
which  an  officious  sentry  or  a  servant  might  mark  their 
approach  and  pass  word  of  it.  Father  Benet  pursued 
this  path  as  one  under  fire.  The  sun  was  low,  but  at  its 
midday  height  it  had  not  burned  the  stout  priest  more 
than  the  fancied  fury  of  those  eyes.  The  sweat  poured 
dowTi  his  face  as  he  climbed  and  panted  and  crossed  him- 
self in  a  breath. 

"Believe  me,  you  are  better  here  than  in  the  bishop's 
prison,"  his  companion  said,  to  cheer  him. 

''But  he  will  see  us  from  the  ramparts,"  he  groaned, 
not  daring  to  look  up  and  disprove  the  fact.  "He  will 
see  us!    He  will  meet  us  at  the  gate." 

"Then  it  will  be  my  affair,"  the  Abbess  answered. 

"We  are  mad — stark,  staring  mad!"  he  protested. 

"You  were  madder  to  go  back,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  viciously,  as  if  he  wished  her  dead. 
Fortunately  they  had  reached  the  narrow  defile  under 
the  bridge,  and  a  feverish  longing  to  come  to  an  end  of 
the  venture  took  place  of  all  other  feelings  in  the  priest's 
breast.  Doggedly  he  panted  up  the  Tilt  Mound,  as  it 
was  called,  and  passed  three  or  four  groups  of  troopers, 
who  were  taking  the  air  on  their  backs  or  playing  at 
games  of  chance.  Tnence  they  crossed  the  drawbridge. 
The  iron-studded  doors,  with  their  clumsy  grilles,  above 
which  the  arms  of  the  old  family  still  showed  their 
quarterings,  stood  open;  but  in  the  depths  of  the  low- 
browed archway,  where  the  shadows  were  beginning  to 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VLAYE.  353 

gather,  lounged  a  dozen  rogues  whose  insolent  eyes  the 
Abbess  must  confront. 

But  she  judged,  and  rightly,  that  the  priest's  company 
would  make  that  easy  which  she  could  not  have  com- 
passed so  well  alone,  though  she  might  have  won  en- 
trance. The  men,  indeed,  were  surprised  to  see  her,  and 
stared;  some  recognised  her  with  respect,  others  with 
grins  half -knowing,  half-insolent.  But  no  one  stepped 
forward  or  volunteered  to  challenge  her  entrance.  And 
although  a  wit,  as  soon  as  her  back  was  turned,  hummed 

"  Je  suis  amoureuse, 
Malheureuse, 
J'ai  perdu  mon  galant!" 

and  another  muttered,  "Oh,  la,  la,  the  bridesmaid!"  with 
a  wink  at  his  fellows,  they  were  soon  clear  of  the  gate 
and  the  starers,  and  crossing  the  wide  paved  court,  that, 
bathed  in  quiet  light,  was  pervaded  none  the  less  by  an 
air  of  subdued  expectation.  Here  a  man  cleaned  a  horse 
or  his  harness,  there  a  group  chatted  on  the  curb  of  the 
well;  here  a  white-capped  cook  showed  himself,  and 
there,  beside  the  entrance,  a  couple  teased  the  brown 
bear  that  inhabited  the  stone  kennel,  and  on  high  days 
made  sport  for  the  Captain  of  Vlaye's  dogs. 

Vlaye's  quarters  and  those  of  his  household  and 
officers  lay  in  the  wing  on  the  left,  wnich  overlooked  the 
town ;  his  men  were  barracked  and  the  horses  stabled  in 
the  opposite  wing.  The  fourth  side,  facing  the  entrance, 
was  open,  but  was  occupied  by  a  garden  raised  two  steps 
above  the  court  and  separated  from  it,  first  by  a  tall 
railing  of  curiously  wrought  iron,  and  secondly  by  a  row 
of  clipped  limes,  whose  level  wall  of  foliage  hid  the 
pleasaunce  from  the  come-and-go  of  the  vidgar. 

The  Abbess  knew  the  place  intimately,  and  she  felt 


354  THE. ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

no  surprise  when  the  Father,  in  place  of  making  for  the 
common  doorway  on  the  left,  which  led  into  M.  de 
Vlaye's  wing,  bore  across  the  open  to  the  floriated  iron 
gates  of  the  garden.  He  passed  through  these  and 
turned  to  the  left  along  the  cool  green  lime  walk,  which 
was  still  musical  with  the  hum  of  belated  bees. 

"She  is  in  the  demoiselles'  whig  then?"  the  Abbess 
murmured.  She  had  occupied  those  rooms  herself  on 
more  than  one  occasion.  They  opened  by  a  door  on 
the  garden  and  enjoyed  a  fair  and  airy  outlook  over  the 
Dronne.  As  she  recalled  them  and  the  memories  they 
summoned  up  her  features  worked. 

"Where  else  should  she  be — short  of  this  evening?" 
Father  Benet  answered,  with  full  knowledge  of  the 
sting  he  inflicted.  Her  secret  was  no  secret  from  him. 
"But  I  need  come  no  farther,"  he  added,  pausing 
awkwardly. 

"To  the  door,"  she  answered  firmly.  "To  the  door! 
That  is  the  bargain." 

"Well,  we  are  there,"  he  said,  halting  when  he  had 
taken  another  dozen  paces,  which  brought  them  to  the 
door  in  the  garden  end  of  the  left  wing^  "  Now,  I  will 
retire  by  your  leave,  sister." 

"Ilnock!" 

He  complied  with  a  faltering  hand,  and  the  moment 
he  had  done  so  he  turned  to  flee,  as  if  the  sound  terrified 
him.  But  with  an  unexpected  movement  she  seized 
his  wrist  in  her  strong  grasp,  and  though  he  stammered  a 
remonstrance,  and  even  resisted  her  weakly,  she  held 
him  until  the  opening  door  surprised  them. 

A  grim-faced  woman  looked  out  at  them.  "To  see 
the  Countess,"  the  Abbess  muttered.  Then  to  the 
priest,  as  she  released  him,  "I  shall  not  be  more   than 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VLAYE.  355 

ten  minutes,  Father,"  she  continued.  "You  will  wait 
for  me,  perhaps.     Until  then!" 

She  nodded  to  him  after  a  careless,  easy  fashion,  and 
the  door  closed  on  her.  In  the  half-light  of  the  passage 
within,  which  faded  tapestry  and  a  stand  of  arms 
relieved  from  utter  bareness,  the  woman  who  had  ad- 
mitted her  faced  her  sourly,  "You  have  my  lord's 
leave?"  she  asked  suspiciously. 

"Should  I  be  here  without  it?"  the  Abbess  retorted 
in  her  proudest  manner.  "Be  speedy,  and  let  me  to 
her.  My  lord  will  not  be  best  pleased  if  the  priest  be 
kept  waiting." 

"No  great  matter  that,"  the  woman  muttered  rebel- 
liously.  But  having  said  it  she  led  the  visitor  up  the 
stairs  and  ushered  her  into  the  well-remembered  room. 
It  was  a  spacious,  pleasant  chamber,  with  a  view  of  the 
garden,  and  beyond  the  garden  of  the  widening  valley 
spread  far  beneath.  Nothing  of  the  prison-house  hung 
about  it,  nor  was  it  bare  or  coldly  furnished. 

The  woman  did  not  enter  with  her,  but  the  gain  was 
not  much.  For  the  Abbess  had  no  sooner  crossed  the 
threshold  than  she  discovered  a  second  gaoler.  This 
was  a  young  waiting-woman,  who,  perched  on  a  stool 
within  the  door,  sat  eyeing  her  prisoner  with  something 
of  pity  and  more  of  ill-humour.  The  little  Countess, 
indeed,  was  a  pitiful  sight.  She  lay,  half-crouching, 
half-huddled  together,  in  the  recess  of  the  farther 
window,  on  the  seat  of  which  she  hid  her  face  in  the 
abandonment  of  despair.  Her  loosened  hair  flowed 
dishevelled  upon  her  neck  and  shoulders;  and  from 
minute  to  minute  a  dry,  painful  sob — for  she  was  not 
weeping — shook  the  poor  child  from  head  to  foot. 

The  Abbess,  after  one  keen  glance,  which  took  in 


356  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE 

every  particular,  from  the  waiting-woman's  expression 
to  the  attitude  of  the  captive,  nodded  to  the  attendant. 
Then  for  a  moment  she  did  not  speak.  At  last,  "She 
takes  it  ill?"   she  muttered  under  her  breath. 

The  other  slightly  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "She 
has  been  like  that  since  he  left  her,"  she  whispered. 
Whether  the  words  and  the  movement  expressed  more 
pity,  or  more  contempt,  or  more  envy,  it  was  hard 
to  determine;  for  all  seemed  to  meet  in  them.  "She 
could  not  take  it  worse." 

"I  am  here  to  mend  that,"  the  Abbess  rejoined. 
And  she  moved  a  short  way  into  the  room.  But  there 
she  came  to  a  stand.  Her  eyes  had  fallen  on  a  pile  of 
laces  and  dainty  fabrics  arranged  upon  one  of  the  seats 
of  the  nearer  window.  Her  face  undenv'ent  a  sudden 
change;  she  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  the  words  stuck 
in  her  throat.     At  last  " Those  are  for  her?"  she  said. 

"Ay,  but  God  Imows  how  I  am  to  get  them  on,"  the 
girl  answered  in  a  low  tone.  "She  is  such  a  baby !  But 
there  it  is!  Whatever  she  is  now,  she'll  be  mistress 
to-morrow,  and  I— I  am  loath  to  use  force." 

"I  will  contrive  it,"  the  Abbess  replied,  a  light  in 
her  averted  eyes.  "Do  you  leave  us.  Come  back  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  if  I  have  succeeded  take  no 
notice.  Take  no  heed,  do  you  hear,"  she  continued, 
turning  to  the  girl,  "if  you  find  her  dressed.  Say 
nothing  to  her,  but  let  her  be  until  she  is  sent  for." 

"I  am  only  too  glad  to  let  her  be." 

" That  is  enough,"  the  Abbess  rejoined  sternly.  "  You 
can  go  now.  Already  the  time  is  short  for  what  I  have 
to  do." 

"You  will  find  it  too  short,  my  lady,  unless  I  am  mis- 
taken," the  waiting-woman  answered  under  her  breath, 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VLAYE.  357 

But  she  went.  She  was  glad  to  escape;  glad  to  get  rid 
of  the  difficulty.  And  she  went  without  suspicion. 
How  the  other  came  to  be  there,  or  how  her  interest 
lay  in  arraying  tliis  cliild  for  a  marriage  with  her  lover 
— these  were  questions  which  the  girl  proposed  to  put 
to  her  gossips  at  a  proper  opportunity;  for  they  were 
puzzling  questions.  But  that  the  Abbess  was  there 
without  leave — the  Abbess  who  not  a  month  before 
had  been  frequently  in  Vlaye's  company,  hawking  and 
hunting,  and  even  supping — to  the  scandal  of  the  con- 
vent, albeit  no  strait-laced  one  nor  unwont  to  make 
allowance  for  its  noble  mistresses — ^that  the  Abbess 
was  there  without  the  knowledge  of  her  master  she 
never  suspected.  It  never  for  an  instant  entered  the 
woman's  mind. 

Meanwhile  Odette,  the  moment  the  door  closed  on 
the  other,  took  action.  Before  the  latch  ceased  to 
rattle  her  hand  was  on  the  Countess's  shoulder,  her 
voice  was  in  her  ear.  "Up,  girl,  if  you  wish  to  be 
saved!"  she  hissed.     ''Up,  and  not  a  word!" 

The  Countess  sprang  up — startled  simultaneously  by 
hand  and  voice.  But  once  on  her  feet  she  recoiled. 
She  stood  breathing  hard,  her  hands  raised  to  ward 
the  other  off.  "You?"  she  cried.  "You  here?"  And 
shaking  her  head  as  if  she  thought  she  dreamed,  she 
retreated  another  step.  Her  distrust  of  the  Abbess 
was  apparent  in  every  line  of  her  figure. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  Odette  answered  roughly.     "It  is  I." 

"But  why?    Why  are  you  here?    Why  you?" 

"To    save    you,  girl,"  the  Abbess    answered.     "To 

save   you — do   you   hear?    But   every   moment   is   of 

value.     Hold  your  tongue,  ask  no  questions,  do  as  I 

tell  you,  and  all  may  be  well.     Hesitate,  and  it  will 


358  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

be  too  late.  See,  the  sun  still  shines  on  the  head  of 
that  tall  tree!  Before  it  leaves  that  tree  you  must  be 
away  from  here.     Is  it  true  that  he  weds  you  to-night?" 

The  other  uttered  a  cry  of  despair.  "And  for  naught!" 
she  said.  ''Do  you  understand,  for  naught!  He  has 
not  let  him  go!  He  lied  to  us!  He  has  not  released 
him!    He  holds  me,  but  he  will  not  release  him." 

"And  he  will  not!"  the  Abbess  replied,  with  some- 
thmg  like  a  jeer.  "So,  if  you  would  not  give  all  for 
naught,  listen  to  me!  Put  some  wrapping  about  your 
shoulders,  and  a  kerchief  on  your  head  to  heighten  you, 
and  over  these  my  robes  and  hood.  And  be  speedy! 
On  your  feet  these" — ^with  a  rapid  movement  she  drew 
from  some  hiding-place  in  her  garments  a  pair  of  thick- 
soled  shoes.  "Hold  yourself  up,  be  bold,  and  you  may 
pass  out  in  my  place." 

"In  your  place?"  the  girl  stanunered,  staring  in  as- 
tonishment. 

The  Abbess  had  scant  patience  with  her  rival's 
obtuseness.  "That  is  what  I  said,"  she  replied,  with 
a  look  that  was  not  pleasant  in  her  eyes. 

The  Countess  saw  the  look,  and,  fearful  and  doubt- 
ing, hung  back.  She  could  not  yet  grasp  the  position. 
"But  you!"  she  murmured.    "What  of  you?" 

"What  is  that  to  you?" 

"But " 

"Fear  nothing  for  me!"  the  Abbess  cried  vehemently. 
"Think  only  of  yourself!  Think  only  of  your  own 
safety.  I" — with  scorn — "am  no  weak  thing  to  suffer 
and  make  no  cry.  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  But, 
there" — impatiently — "we  have  lost  five  minutes!  Are 
you  going  to  do  this  or  not?  Are  you  going  to  stay 
here,  or  are  you  going  to  escape?" 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VLAYE.  359 

"Oh,  escape!  Escape,  if  it  be  possible!"  the  Countess 
answered,  shuddering.     "Anywhere,  from  him!" 

"You  are  certain?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!  But  it  is  not  possible!  He  is  too 
clever." 

"We  will  see  if  that  be  so,"  the  Abbess  answered, 
smiling  grimly.  And  taking  the  matter  into  her  own 
hands,  she  began  to  strip  off  her  robe  and  hood. 

That  decided  the  girl.  Gladly  would  she  have  learned 
how  the  other  came  to  be  there,  and  why  and  to  what 
she  trusted.  Gladly  would  she  have  asked  other  things. 
But  the  prospect  of  escape — of  escape  from  a  fate  which 
she  dreaded  the  more  the  nearer  she  saw  it — took 
reality  in  view  of  the  Abbess's  actions.  And  she,  too, 
began.  Escape?  Was  it  possible?  Was  it  possible  to 
escape?  With  shaking  fingers  she  snatched  up  a  short 
cloak,  and  wrapped  it  about  her  shoulders  and  figure, 
tying  it  this  way  and  that.  She  made  in  the  same  way 
a  turban  of  a  kerchief,  and  stood  ready  to  clothe  her- 
seK.  By  this  time  the  Abbess's  outer  garments  lay  on 
the  floor,  and  in  three  or  four  minutes  the  travesty,  as 
far  as  the  younger  woman  was  concerned,  was  effected. 

Meantime,  while  they  both  wrought,  and  especially 
while  the  Countess,  stooping,  stuffed  the  large  shoes 
and  fitted  them  and  buckled  them  on,  the  Abbess 
never  ceased  explaining  the  remainder  of  the  plan. 

"Go  down  the  stairs,"  she  said,  "and  if  you  have  to 
speak  mutter  bvit  a  word.  Outside  the  door,  turn  to 
the  right  until  you  come  to  the  gate  in  the  iron  railing. 
Pass  through  it,  cross  the  court,  and  go  out  through 
the  great  gate,  speaking  to  no  one.  Then  follow  the 
road,  which  makes  a  loop  to  the  left  and  passes  under 
itself.    Descend  by  it  to  the  market-place,  and  then  to 


360         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

the  right  until  you  see  the  town  gate  fifty  paces  before 
you.  At  that  point  take  the  lane  on  the  left,  and  a 
score  of  yards  will  show  you  the  horses  waiting  for 
you,  and  with  them  a  friend.  You  understand?  Then 
I  will  repeat  it.'' 

And  she  did  so  from  point  to  point  in  such  a  way  and 
so  clearly  that  the  other,  distracted  as  she  was,  could 
not  but  learn  the  lesson. 

''And  now,"  the  Abbess  said,  when  all  was  told, 
"give  me  something  to  put  on."  Her  beautiful  arms 
and  shoulders  were  bare.  "Something — anything,"  she 
continued,  looking  about  her  impatiently.  "Only  be 
quick!    Be  quick,  girl!" 

"There  is  only  this,"  the  Countess  answered,  produc- 
ing her  heavy  riding-cloak.  "Unless" — doubtfully — 
"you  will  put  on  those."  She  indicated  the  little  pile 
of  wedding-clothes,  of  dainty  silk  and  lace  and  lawn, 
that  lay  upon  the  window-seat. 

"Those!"  the  Abbess  exclaimed.  And  she  looked 
at  the  pile  as  at  a  snake.  "No,  not  those!  Not  those! 
Why  do  you  want  me  to  put  on  those?  Why  should 
I?"  with  a  suspicious  look  at  the  other's  face. 

"If  you  will  not " 

"Will  not?" —violently.  " No,  I  will  no-t.  And  why 
do  you  ask  me?  But  I  prate  as  badly  as  you,  and  we 
lose  time.  Are  you  ready  now?  Let  me  look  at  you." 
And  feverishly,  while  she  Icicked  off  her  own  shoes  and 
donned  the  riding-cloak  and  drew  its  hood  over  her  head, 
she  turned  the  Countess  about  to  assure  herself  that  the 
disguise  was  tolerable — in  a  bad  light. 

Then,  "You  will  do,"  she  said  roughly,  and  she 
pushed  the  girl  from  her.  "Go  now.  You  know  what 
you  have  to  do." 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VLAYE.         361 

•'But  you?"  the  little  Countess  ventured.  Words  of 
gratitude  were  trembling  on  her  lips;  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes.     "You — what  will  you  do?" 

"You  need  not  trouble  about  me,"  the  Abbess  re- 
torted.    "  Play  your  part  well ;  that  is  all  I  ask." 

"At  least,"  the  Countess  faltered,  "let  me  thank 
you,"  She  would  have  flung  her  arms  round  the  other's 
neck. 

But  the  Abbess  backed  from  her.  "Go,  silly  fool!" 
she  cried  savagely,  "unless,  after  all,  you  repent  and 
want  to  keep  him." 

The  insult  gave  the  needed  fillip  to  the  other's 
courage.  She  turned  on  her  heel,  opened  the  door 
with  a  firm  hand,  and,  closing  it  behind  her,  descended 
the  stairs.  The  waiting-maid  and  the  grim-faced 
woman  were  talking  in  the  passage,  but  they  ceased 
their  gossip  on  her  appearance,  and  turned  their  eyes 
on  her.  Fortunately  the  place  was  ill-lit  and  full  of 
shadows,  and  the  Countess  had  the  presence  of  mind 
to  go  steadily  down  to  them  without  word  or  sign. 

"I  hope  mademoiselle  has  succeeded,"  the  waiting- 
woman  murmured  respectfully.  "It  is  not  a  business 
I  favour,  I  am  sure." 

The  Countess  shrugged  her  shoulders — despair  giving 
her  courage — and  the  grim-faced  woman  moved  to  the 
door,  unlocked  it,  and  held  it  wide.  The  escaping  one 
acknowledged  the  act  by  a  slight  nod,  and,  passing  out, 
she  turned  to  the  right.  She  walked,  giddily  and 
uncertainly,  to  the  open  gate  in  the  railing,  and  then, 
with  some  difficulty — for  the  shoes  were  too  large  for 
her — she  descended  the  two  steps  to  the  court.  She 
began  to  cross  the  open,  and  a  man  here  and  there, 
raising  his  head  from  his  occupation^  turned  to  watch  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  NIGHT   BY   THE   RIVER. 

The  Countess  knew  that  her  knees  were  shaking 
under  her.  The  gaze,  too,  of  the  men  who  watched 
was  dreadful  to  her.  She  felt  her  feet  sHpping  from 
the  shoes;  she  felt  the  kerchief,  that,  twined  in  her 
hair,  gave  her  height,  shift  with  the  movement;  she 
felt  her  Hmbs  yielding.  And  she  despaired.  She  was 
certain  that  she  could  not  pass;  she  must  faint,  she 
must  fall.  Then  the  scornful  words  of  the  woman  she 
had  left  recurred  to  her,  stung  her,  whipped  her  courage 
once  ijiore;  and,  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  she  had 
reached  the  gateway.  She  was  conscious  of  a  crowd  of 
men  about  her,  of  all  eyes  fixed  on  her,  of  a  jeering 
voice  that  hummed: 

"  Amoureuae, 
Malheureuse, 
J'ai  perdu  mon  galantf* 

and — and  then  she  was  beyond  the  gate  I  The  cool  air 
blowing  in  the  gorge  between  the  two  breasts  fanned 
her  burning  cheeks — never  breeze  more  blessed! — and 
with  hope,  courage,  confidence  all  in  a  moment  revived 
and  active,  she  began  to  descend  the  winding  road  that 
led  to  the  towTi. 

There  were  men  lounging  on  the  road,  singly  or  in 
groups,  who  stared  at  her  as  she  passed;    some  with 

362 


A  NIGHT  BY  THE  RIVER.  363 

thinly-veiled  insolence,  others  in  pure  curiosity.  But 
they  did  not  dare  to  address  her;  though  they  thought, 
looking  after  her,  that  she  bore  herself  oddly.  And  she 
came  unmolested  to  the  spot  where  the  road  passed 
under  the  drawbridge.  Here  for  an  instant  sick  fear 
shook  her  anew.  Some  of  the  men  in  the  gateway  had 
come  out  to  watch  her  pass  below;  she  thought  that 
they  came  to  call  her  back.  But  save  for  a  muttered 
jeer  and  the  voice  of  the  jester  repeating  slyly: 

"  Malheureuse, 
Amoureuse, 
A  perdu  son  galantl" 

no  one  spoke;  and  as  pace  by  pace  her  feet  carried  her 
from  them,  carried  her  farther  and  farther,  her  courage 
returned,  she  breathed  agam.  She  came  at  the  foot  of 
the  descent,  to  the  carved  stone  fountain  and  the  sloping 
market-place.  She  took,  as  ordered,  the  road  that  fell 
away  to  the  right,  and  in  a  twinkling  she  was  hidden 
by  the  turn  from  the  purview  of  the  castle. 

She  ventured  then — the  town  seemed  to  stifle  her — 
to  move  more  quickly;  as  quickly  as  her  clumsy  shoes 
would  let  her  move  on  stones  sloping  and  greasy.  Here 
and  there  a  person,  struck  by  sometliing  in  her  walk, 
turned  to  take  a  second  glance  at  her;  or  a  woman  in 
a  low  doorway  bent  curious  eyes  on  her  as  she  came  and 
went.  She  could  not  tell  whether  she  bred  suspicion 
in  them  or  not,  or  whether  she  seemed  the  same  woman 
— but  a  trifle  downcast — who  had  passed  that  way 
before.  For  she  dared  not  look  back  nor  return  their 
gaze.  Her  heart  beat  quickly,  and  more  quickly  as 
the  end  drew  near.  Success  that  seemed  within  her 
grasp  impelled  her  at  last  almost  to  a  run.  And  then 
— she  was  round  the  corner  in  the  side  lane  that  had 


364         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

been  indicated  to  her,  and  she  saw  before  her  the 
horses  and  the  men  gathered  before  the  chapel  gate. 
And  Roger — yes,  Roger  himself,  with  a  face  that 
worked  strangely  and  words  that  joy  stifled  in  his 
throat,  was  leading  her  to  a  horse  and  lending  his  knee 
to  mount  her.  And  they  were  turning,  and  moving 
back  again  into  the  street. 

"There  is  only  the  gate  now,"  he  muttered,  "only 
the  gate !    Courage,  mademoiselle !    Be  steady  I " 

And  the  gate  proved  no  hindrance.  Though  not  one 
moment  of  all  she  had  passed  was  more  poignant,  more 
full  of  choking  fear,  than  that  which  saw  them  move 
slowly  through,  under  the  gaze  of  the  men  on  guard, 
who  seemed  for  just  one  second  to  be  rising  to  question 
them.  Then — the  open  country!  The  open  country 
with  its  air,  its  cool  breezes,  its  spacious  evening  light 
and  its  promise  of  safety.  And  quick  on  this  fol- 
lowed the  delicious  moment  when  they  began  to  trot, 
slowly  at  first  and  carelessly,  that  suspicion  might  not 
be  awakened;  and  then  more  swiftly,  and  more  swiftly, 
urging  the  horses  with  sly  kicks  and  disguised  spurrings 
until  the  first  wood  that  hid  them  saw  them  pounding 
forward  at  a  gallop,  with  the  Countess's  robe  flapping 
in  the  wind,  her  kerchief  fallen,  her  hair  loosened.  Two 
miles,  three  miles  flew  by  them;  they  topped  the 
wooded  hill  that  looked  down  on  Villeneuve.  Then, 
midway  in  the  descent  on  the  farther  side,  they  left  the 
path  at  a  word  from  Roger,  plunged  into  the  scrub 
and  rode  at  risk— for  it  was  dark — along  a  deer-trail 
with  which  he  was  familiar.  This  brought  them  pres- 
ently, by  many  windings  and  through  thick  brush,  to 
a  spot  where  the  brook  was  fordable.  Thence,  in 
silence,    they   plodded   and   waded   and   jogged   along 


A  NIGHT  BY  THE  RIVER.  365 

damp  woodland  ways  and  through  watery  lanes  that 
attended  the  brook  to  its  junction  with  the  river. 

Here,  at  length,  in  the  lowest  bottom  of  the  Ville- 
neuve  valley,  they  halted.  For  the  time  they  deemed 
themselves  safe;  since  night  had  fallen  and  hidden 
their  tracks,  and  Vlaye,  if  he  followed,  would  take  the 
ordinary  road.  It  had  gi'own  so  dark  indeed,  that 
until  the  moon  rose  farther  retreat  was  impossible;  and 
though  the  river  beside  which  they  stood  was  fordable 
at  the  cost  of  a  wetting,  Roger  thought  it  better  to  put 
off  the  attempt.  One  of  the  servants,  the  man  at 
the  Countess's  bridle,  would  have  had  him  try  now, 
and  rest  in  the  increased  security  of  the  farther  bank. 
But  Roger  demurred,  for  a  reason  which  he  did  not 
explain;  and  the  party  dismounted  where  they  were, 
in  a  darkness  which  scarcely  permitted  the  hand  to 
be  seen  before  the  face. 

"The  moon  will  be  up  in  three  hours,"  Roger  said. 
"If  we  cannot  flee  they  cannot  pursue.  Mademoi- 
selle, "  he  continued,  in  a  voice  into  which  he  strove  to 
throw  a  certain  aloofness,  "if  you  will  give  me  your 
hand,"  he  felt  for  it,  "there  is  a  dry  spot  here.  I  will 
break  down  these  saplings  and  put  a  cloak  over  them, 
and  you  may  get  some  sleep.  You  'will  need  it,  for  the 
moment  the  moon  is  up  we  must  ride  on. " 

The  snapping  of  alder  boughs  announced  that  he 
was  preparing  her  resting-place.  She  felt  for  the  spot, 
but  timidly,  and  he  had  to  take  her  hand  again  and 
place  her  in  it. 

"I  fear  it  is  rough,"  he  said,  "but  it  is  the  best  we 
can  do.     For  food,  alas,  we  have  none. " 

"I  want  none,"  she  answered.  And  then  hurriedly, 
"You  are  not  going?" 


3C6         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Only  a  few  yards. " 

''Stay,  if  you  please.     I  am  frightened." 

"Be  sure  I  will,"  he  answered.  "But  we  are  in 
Httle  danger  here. " 

He  made  a  seat  for  himself  not  far  from  her,  and  he 
sat  down.  And  if  she  was  frightened  he  was  happy, 
though  he  could  not  see  her.  He  was  in  that  stage  of 
love  when  no  familiarity  has  brought  the  idol  too  near, 
no  mark  of  favour  has  declared  her  human,  no  sign  of 
preference  has  fostered  hope.  He  had  done  her,  he 
was  doing  her  a  service;  and  all  his  hfe  it  would  be  his 
to  recall  her  as  he  had  seen  her  during  their  flight — 
battered,  blown  about,  with  streaming  hair  and  drag- 
gled clothes,  the  branches  whipping  colour  into  her 
cheeks,  her  small  brown  hand  strugghng  with  her 
tangled  locks.  In  such  a  stage  of  love  to  be  near  is 
enough,  and  Roger  asked  no  more.  He  forgot  his 
sister's  position,  he  forgot  des  Ageaux'  danger.  Listen- 
ing in  the  warm  summer  night  to  the  croaking  of  the 
frogs,  he  gazed  unrebuked  into  the  darkness  that  held 
her,  and  he  was  content. 

Not  that  he  had  hope  of  her,  or  even  in  fancy  thought 
of  her  as  his.  But  this  moment  was  his,  and  while  he 
lived  he  would  possess  the  recollection  of  it.  All  his 
life  he  would  think  of  her,  as  the  monk  in  the  cloister 
bears  with  him  the  image  of  her  he  loved  in  the  world; 
or  as  the  maid  remembers  blamelessly  the  lover  who 
died  between  betrothal  and  wedding,  and  before  one 
wry  word  or  one  divided  thought  had  risen  to  dim  the 
fair  mirror  of  her  future. 

Alas,  of  all  the  dainty  things  in  the  world,  too  deli- 
cate in  their  nature  to  be  twice  tasted,  none  is  more 
evanescent  than  this  first  worship;    this  reverence  of 


A  NIGHT  BY  THE  RIVER.  367 

the  lover  for  her  who  seems  rather  angel  than  woman, 
framed  of  a  clay  too  heavenly  for  the  coarse  touch  of 
passion. 

Once  before,  in  the  hay-field,  he  had  tried  to  save  her, 
and  he  had  failed.  This  time — oh,  he  was  happy  when 
he  thought  of  it — he  would  save  her.  And  he  fell  into  a 
dream  of  a  life — impossible  in  those  days,  however  it 
might  have  been  in  the  times  of  Amadis  of  Gaul,  or 
Palmerin  of  England — devoted  secretly  to  her  service 
and  her  happiness;  a  beautiful,  melancholy  dream  of 
imrequited  devotion,  attuned  to  the  solenmity  of  the 
woodland  night  with  its  vast  spaces,  its  mysterious 
rustlings  and  gurghng  waters.  Those  who  knew  Roger 
best,  and  best  appreciated  his  loyal  nature,  would  have 
deemed  him  sleepless  for  the  Lieutenant's  sake — ^whose 
Ufe  hung  in  the  balance;  or  tormented  by  thoughts  of 
the  Abbess's  position.  But  love  is  of  all  things  the  most 
selfish;  and  though  Roger  ground  his  teeth  once  and 
again  as  Vlaye's  breach  of  faith  occurred  to  him,  his 
thoughts  were  quickly  plunged  anew  in  a  sweet  reverie, 
in  which  she  had  part.  The  wind  blew  from  her  to  him, 
and  he  fancied  that  some  faint  scent  from  her  loosened 
hair,  some  perfume  of  her  clothing  came  to  him. 

It  was  her  voice  that  at  last  and  abruptly  dragged 
him  from  his  dream.  "Are  you  not  ashamed  of  me?" 
she  w^hispered. 

"Ashamed?"    he  cried,  leaping  in  his  seat. 

"Once — twice,  I  have  failed,"  she  went  on,  her  voice 
trembling  a  little.  "Always  some  one  must  take  my 
place.  Bonne  first,  and  now  your  other  sister  1  I  am 
a  coward,  Monsieur  Roger.     A  coward  1" 

"No!"  he  said  firmly.     "No!" 

"Yes,  a  coward.     But  you  do  not  Imow,"  she  con- 


368  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

tinued  in  the  tone  of  one  who  pleaded,  "how  lonely  I 
have  been,  and  what  I  have  suffered.  I  have  been 
tossed  from  hand  to  hand  all  my  life,  and  mocked 
with  great  names  and  great  titles,  and  been  with  them 
all  a  puppet,  a  thing  my  family  valued  because  they 
could  barter  it  away  when  the  price  was  good — just 
as  they  could  a  farm  or  a  manor!  I  give  orders,  and 
sometimes  they  are  carried  out,  and  sometimes  not — 
as  it  suits,"  bitterly.  "I  am  shown  on  high  days  as 
Madonnas  are  shown,  carried  shoulder  high  through 
the  streets.  And  I  am  as  far  from  everybody,  as 
lonely,  as  friendless,"  her  voice  broke  a  little,  "as 
theyl    What  wonder  if  I  am  a  coward?" 

"You  are  tired,"  Roger  answered,  striving  to  control 
his  voice,  striving  also  to  control  a  mad  desire  to  throw 
himself  at  her  feet  and  comfort  her.  "You  will  feel 
differently  to-morrow.  You  have  had  no  food,  made- 
moiselle." 

"You  too?"  in  a  voice  of  reproach. 

He  did  not  understand  her,  and  though  he  trembled 
he  was  silent. 

"You  too  treat  me  as  a  child,"  she  continued.  "You 
talk  as  if  food  made  up  for  friends  and  no  one  was  lonely 
save  when  alone!  Think  what  it  must  be  to  be  always 
alone,  in  a  crowd!  Bargained  for  by  one,  snatched  at 
by  another,  fawned  on  by  a  third,  a  prize  for  the  boldest! 
And  not  one — ^not  one  thinking  of  me!"  pathetically. 
And  then,  as  he  rose,  "What  is  it?" 

"I  think  I  hear  some  one  moving,"  Roger  faltered. 
"I  will  tell  the  men!"  And  without  waiting  for  her 
answer,  he  stumbled  away.  For,  in  truth,  he  could  listen 
no  longer.  If  he  listened  longer,  if  he  stayed,  he  must 
speak!    And  she  was  a  child,  she  did  not  know.    She 


A  NIGHT  BY  THE  RIVER.  369 

did  not  know  that  she  was  temptmg  him,  trying  him, 
putting  him  to  a  test  beyond  his  strength.  He  stumbled 
away  into  the  darkness,  and  steering  for  the  place 
where  the  horses  were  tethered  he  called  the  men  by 
name. 

One  answered  sleepily  that  all  was  well.  The  other, 
who  was  resting,  snored.  Roger,  his  face  on  fire,  hesi- 
tated, not  knowing  what  to  do.  To  bid  the  man  who 
watched  come  nearer  and  keep  the  lady  company  would 
be  absurd,  would  be  out  of  reason;  and  so  it  would  be 
to  bid  him  stand  guard  over  them  while  they  talked. 
The  man  would  think  him  mad.  The  only  alternative, 
if  he  would  remove  himself  from  temptation,  was  to 
remain  at  a  distance  from  her.     And  this  he  must  do. 

He  found,  therefore,  a  seat  a  score  of  paces  away,  and 
he  sat  down,  his  head  between  his  hands.  But  his 
heart  cried — cried  pitifully  that  he  was  losing  moments 
that  would  never  recur — moments  on  which  he  would 
look  back  all  his  life  with  regret.  And  besides  his  heart, 
other  things  spoke  to  him;  the  warm  stillness  of  the 
summer  night,  the  low  murmur  of  the  water  at  his 
feet,  the  whispering  breeze,  the  wood-nymphs — ay,  and 
the  old  song  that  recurred  to  his  memory  and  mocked 
him — 

"  Je  ris  de  moi,  je  ris  de  toi, 
Je  ris  de  ta  sottisel" 

Here,  indeed,  was  his  opportunity,  here  was  such  a 
chance  as  few  men  had,  and  no  man  would  let  slip. 
But  he  was  not  as  other  men — there  it  was.  He  was 
crook-backed,  poor,  unknown!  And  so  thinking,  so 
telling  himself,  he  fixed  himself  in  his  resolve,  he  strove 
to  harden  his  heart,  he  covered  his  ears  with  his  hands. 
For  she  was  a  child,  a  child  1    She  did  not  understand! 


370  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

He  would  have  played  the  hero  perfectly  but  for  one 
fatal  thought  that  presently  came  to  him — a  thought 
fatal  to  his  rectitude.  She  would  take  fright  1  Left 
alone,  ignorant  of  the  feeling  that  drove  him  from  her — 
what  if  she  moved  from  the  place  where  he  had  left  her, 
and  lost  herseK  in  the  wood,  or  fell  into  the  river,  or — 
and  just  then  she  called  him. 

"Monsieur  Roger!    Where  are  you?" 

He  went  back  to  her  slowly,  almost  sullenly;  partly 
in  surrender  to  his  own  impulse,  partly  in  response  to 
her  call.  But  he  did  not  agam  sit  down  beside  her, 
"Yes,"  he  said.  "You  are  quite  safe,  mademoiselle.  I 
shall  not  be  out  of  earshot.    You  are  quite  safe." 

"Why  did  you  go  away?" 

* '  Away  ?  "  he  faltered. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me?"  gently. 

"Afraid  of  you?"     He  tried  to  speak  gaily. 

"Pray,"  she  said  in  a  queer,  stiff  tone,  "do  not  repeat 
all  my  words.  I  asked  if  you  were  afraid  of  me.  Mon- 
sieur Roger?" 

"No,"  he  faltered,  "but — ^but  I  thought  that  you 
would  rather  be  alone." 

"I?"  in  a  tone  that  went  to  poor  Roger's  heart. 
"I,  who  have  told  you  that  I  am  always  alone?  Who 
have  told  you  that  I  have  not" — her  voice  shook — "a 
friend — one  real  friend  in  the  world!" 

"You  are  tired  now,"  Roger  faltered,  finding  no 
other  words  than  those  he  had  used  before. 

"Not  one  real  friend!"  she  repeated  piteously.  "Not 
onel" 

He  was  not  proof  against  that.  He  bent  towards 
her  in  the  darkness — almost  in  spite  of  himself.  "Yes, 
one,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  as  unsteady  as  hers.     "One 


A  NIGHT  BY  THE  RIVER.  371 

you  have,  mademoiselle,  who  would  die  for  you  and 
ask  not  a  look  in  return!  Who  would  set,  and  will 
ever  set,  your  honour  and  your  happiness  above  the 
prizes  of  the  world!  Who  asks  only  to  serv^e  you  at 
a  distance,  by  day  and  dark,  now  and  always!  If  it 
be  a  comfort  for  you  to  know  that  you  have  a  friend, 
know  it!    I^ow " 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  struck  in,  in  a  voice  both  in- 
credulous and  ironical,  "where  I  am  to  find  such  an 
one  save  in  books!  In  the  Seven  Champions  or  in 
Amadis  of  Gaul — ^perhaps.     But  in  the  world — where?" 

He  was  silent.  He  had  said  too  much  already.  Too 
much,  too  much! 

"Wliere?"  she  repeated. 

Still  he  did  not  answer. 

Then,  "Do  you  mean  yourself,  Monsieur  Roger?" 
She  spoke  with  a  certain  keenness  of  tone  that  was 
near  to,  ay,  that  threatened  offence. 

He  stood,  his  hands  hanging  by  his  side.  "Yes," 
he  faltered.  "But  no  one  knows  better  than  myself 
that  I  cannot  help  you,  mademoiselle.  That  I  can  be 
no  honour  to  you.  For  the  Countess  of  Rochechouart 
to  have  a  crook-backed  knight  at  the  tail  of  her  train — 
it  may  make  some  laugh.  It  may  make  women  laugh. 
Yet "  he  paused  on  the  word. 

"Yet  what,  sir?" 

"While  he  rides  there,"  poor  Roger  whispered,  "no 
man  shall  laugh." 

She  was  silent  quite  a  long  time,  as  if  she  had  not 
heard  him.     Then, 

"Do  you  not  know,"  she  said,  "that  the  Countess 
of  Rochechouart  can  have  but  one  friend — her  hus- 
band?" 


372  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

He  winced.  She  was  right;  but  if  that  was  her  feel- 
ing, why  had  she  complained  of  the  lack  of  friends? 

"Only  one  friend,  her  husband,"  the  Countess  con- 
tinued softly.  "If  you  would  be  that  friend — ^but 
perhaps  you  would  not,  Roger?  Still,  if  you  would,  I 
say,  you  must  be  kind  to  her  ever  and  gentle  to  her. 
You  must  not  leave  her  alone  in  woods  on  dark  nights. 
You  must  not  slight  her.  You  must  not," — she  was 
half  laughmg,  half  crying,  and  hanging  towards  him  in 
the  darkness,  her  childish  hands  held  out  in  a  gesture 
of  appeal,  irresistible  had  he  seen  it — but  it  was  dark, 
or  she  had  not  dared — "you  must  not  make  anything 
too  hard  for  her!" 

He  stepped  one  pace  from  her,  shaking. 

"I  dare  not!    I  dare  not!"  he  said. 

"Not  if  I  dare?"  she  retorted  gently.  "Not  if  I  dare, 
who  am  a  coward?  Are  you  a  coward,  too,  that  when 
you  have  said  so  much  and  I  have  said  so  much  you 
will  still  leave  me  alone  and  unprotected,  and — and 
friendless?    Or  is  it  that  you  do  not  love  me?" 

"Not  love  you?"  Roger  cried,  in  a  tone  that  betrayed 
more  than  a  volume  of  words  had  told.  And  beaten 
out  of  his  last  defence  by  that  shrewd  dilemma,  he 
threw  his  pride  to  the  wmds;  he  sank  down  beside 
her,  and  seized  her  hands  and  carried  them  to  his 
lips — Ups  that  were  hot  with  the  fever  of  sudden  passion. 
"Not  love  you,  mademoiselle?     Not  love  you?" 

"So  eloquent!"  she  murmured,  with  a  last  flicker  of 
irony.  "He  does  not  even  now  say  that  he  loves  me. 
It  is  still  his  friendship,  I  suppose,  that  he  offers  me." 

"Mademoiselle!" 

"  Or  is  it  that  you  think  me  a  nun  because  I  wear  this 
dress?" 


A  NIGHT  BY  THE  RIVER.  373 

He  convinced  her  by  means  more  eloquent  than  all 
the  words  lovers'  lips  have  framed  that  he  did  not  so 
think  her ;  that  she  was  the  heart  of  his  heart,  the  desire 
of  his  desire.  Not  that  she  needed  to  be  convinced. 
For  when  the  dehrium  of  his  joy  began  to  subside  he 
ventured  to  put  a  certain  question  to  her — that  ques- 
tion which  happy  lovers  never  fail  to  put. 

"Do  you  think  women  are  blind?"  she  answered. 
"Did  you  think  I  did  not  see  your  big  eyes  following 
me  in  and  out  and  up  and  down?  That  I  did  not  see 
your  blush  when  I  spoke  to  you  and  your  black  brow 
when  I  walked  with  M.  des  Ageaux?  Dear  Roger, 
women  are  not  so  blind!  I  was  not  so  blind  that  I  did 
not  know  as  much  before  you  spoke  as  I  know  now." 

And  in  the  dark  of  the  wood  they  talked,  while  the 
water  glinted  slowly  by  them  and  the  frogs  croaked 
among  the  waving  weeds,  and  in  the  stillness  under  the 
trees  the  warmth  of  the  summer  night  and  of  love 
wrapped  them  round.  It  was  an  hour  between  danger 
and  danger,  made  more  precious  by  uncertainty.  For 
the  moment  the  world  held  for  each  of  them  but  one 
other  person.  The  Lieutenant's  peril.  Bonne's  suspense, 
the  Abbess — all  were  forgotten  until  the  moon  rose 
above  the  trees  and  flung  a  chequered  light  on  the  dark 
moss  and  hart's-tongue  and  harebells  about  the  lovers' 
feet.  And  with  a  shock  of  self-reproach  the  two  rose 
to  their  feet. 

They  gave  to  inaction  not  a  moment  after  that. 
With  difficulty  and  some  danger  the  river  was  forded 
by  the  pale  light,  and  they  resumed  their  journey  by 
devious  ways  until,  mounting  from  the  lower  ground 
that  fringed  the  water,  they  gained  the  flank  of  the 
hills.     Thence,  crossing  one  shoulder  after  another  by 


374  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

paths  known  to  Roger,  they  reached  the  hill  at  the  rear 
of  the  Old  Crocans'  town.  In  passing  by  this  and 
traversing  the  immediate  neighbom'hood  of  the  peas- 
ants' camp  lay  their  greatest  danger.  But  the  dawn 
was  now  at  hand,  the  moon  was  fading;  and  in  the  cold, 
grey  interval  between  dawn  and  dayhght  they  slipped 
by  within  sight  of  the  squahd  walls,  and  with  the  fear 
of  surprise  on  them  approached  the  gate  of  the  camp. 
Nor,  though  all  went  well  with  them,  did  they  breathe 
freely  until  the  challenge  of  the  guard  at  the  gate  rang 
in  their  ears. 

After  that  there  came  with  safety  the  sense  of  their 
selfishness.  They  thought  of  poor  Bonne,  who,  some- 
where in  the  mist-wrapped  basin  before  them,  lay 
waiting  and  listening  and  praying.  How  were  they  to 
face  her?  with  what  heart  tell  her  that  her  lover,  that 
des  Ageaux,  still  lay  in  his  enemy's  power.  True, 
Vlaye  had  gone  back  on  his  word,  and,  in  face  of  the 
Countess's  surrender,  had  refused  to  release  him;  so 
that  they  were  not  to  blame.  But  would  Bonne  believe 
this?  Would  she  not  rather  set  down  the  failure  to  the 
Countess's  faint  heart,  to  the  Countess's  withdrawal? 

"I  should  not  have  come!"  the  girl  cried,  turning  to 
Roger  in  great  distress.  "I  should  not  have  come!", 
Her  new  happiness  fell  from  her  Hke  a  garment,  and, 
shivering,  she  hung  back  in  the  entrance  and  wrung  her 
hands.  "I  dare  not  face  her!"  she  said.  "I  dare 
not,  indeed!"  And,  "Wait!"  to  the  men  who  wished 
to  hurry  off  and  proclaim  their  return.  ''Wait!"  she 
said  imperatively. 

The  grey  fog  of  the  early  morning,  which  had  shel- 
tered their  approach  and  still  veiled  the  lower  parts  of 
the  camp,  seemed  to  add  to  the  hopelessness  of  the 


A  NIGHT  BY  THE  RIVER.  375 

news  they  bore.  Roger  himself  was  silent,  looking  at 
the  waiting  men,  and  wondering  what  must  be  done. 
Poor  Bonne!  He  had  scarcely  thought  of  her — yet 
what  must  she  be  feeUng?  What  had  he  himself  felt  a 
few  hours  before? 

"Some  one  must  tell  her,"  he  said  presently.  "If 
you  will  not " 

"I  will!  I  will!"  she  answered,  her  Hp  beginning  to 
tremble. 

Roger  hesitated.  "Perhaps  she  is  sleeping,"  he 
said;   "and  then  it  were  a  pity  to  rouse  her."  "» 

But  the  Countess  shook  her  head  in  scorn  of  his 
ignorance.  Bonne  would  not  be  sleeping.  Sleeping, 
when  her  lover  had  not  returned!  Sleeping,  at  this 
hour  of  all  hovirs,  the  hour  M.  de  Vlaye  had  fixed  for 
— for  the  end!  Sleeping,  when  at  any  moment  news, 
the  best  or  the  worst,  might  come! 

And  Bonne  was  not  sleeping.  The  words  had  scarcely 
passed  Roger's  hps  when  she  appeared,  gUding  out  of 
the  mist  towards  them,  the  Bat's  lank  form  at  her 
elbow.  Their  appearance  in  company  was,  in  truth,  no 
work  of  chance.  Six  or  seven  times  aheady,  braving 
the  dark  camp  and  its  possible  dangers,  she  had  gone  to 
the  entrance  to  inquire;  and  on  each  occasion — so 
Btrong  is  a  cormnon  affection — the  Bat  had  appeared 
fts  it  were  from  the  ground,  and  gone  silently  with  her, 
learned  in  silence  that  there  was  no  news,  and  seen  her 
in  silence  to  her  quarters  again.  The  previous  after- 
noon she  had  got  some  rest.  She  had  lain  some  hours 
in  the  deep  sleep  of  exhaustion;  and  longer  in  a  hea\y 
doze,  conscious  of  the  dead  weight  of  anxiety,  yet 
resting  in  body. 

Save  for  this  she  had  not  had  strength  both  to  bear 


376         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

and  watch.  As  it  was,  deep  shadows  under  her  eyes 
told  of  the  strain  she  was  enduring;  and  her  face,  though 
it  had  not  lost  its  girlish  contours,  was  white  and  woe- 
ful. When  she  saw  them  standing  together  in  the  en- 
trance a  glance  told  her  that  they  bore  ill  news.  Yet, 
to  Roger's  great  astonishment,  she  was  quite  calm. 

"He  has  not  released  him?"  she  said,  a  flicker  of 
pain  distorting  her  face. 

The  Countess  clasped  her  hand  in  both  her  own,  and 
with  tears  running  down  her  face  shook  her  head. 

"He  is  not  dead?" 

"No,  no!" 

"Tell  me." 

And  they  told  her.  "When  I  said  'You  will  release 
him?'  "  the  Countess  explained,  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty, "he — he — laughed.  'I  did  not  promise  to  re- 
lease him,'  he  answered.  'I  said  if  you  did  not  accept 
my  hospitality,  I  should  hang  him!'     That  was  all." 

"And  now?"  Bonne  murmured.  A  pang  once  more 
flickered  in  her  eyes.     "What  of  him  now?" 

"I  think,  "Roger  said,  "there  is  a  hope.    Ido  indeed." 

Bonne  stood  a  moment  silent.  Then,  in  a  voice  so 
steady  that  it  surprised  even  the  Bat,  who  had  ex- 
perience of  her  courage,  "There  is  a  hope,"  she  said, 
"if  it  be  not  too  late.  M.  de  Joyeuse,  whose  father's 
life  he  would  have  saved — I  will  go  to  him!  I  will 
kneel  to  him!  He  must  save  him.  There  must  still  be 
ways  of  saving  him,  and  the  Duke's  power  is  great." 
She  turned  to  the  Bat.     "Take  me  to  him,"  she  said. 

He  stooped  his  rugged  beard  to  her  hand,  and  kissed 
it  with  reverence.  Then,  while  the  others  stood  as- 
tonished at  her  firmness,  he  passed  with  her  into  the 
mist  in  the  direction  of  the  Duke's  hut. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   bride's    dot. 

The  Abbess  left  alone  in  the  garden-chamber  listened 
intently;  looking  now  on  the  door  which  had  closed 
on  her  rival,  now  on  the  windows,  whence  it  was  just 
possible  that  she  might  catch  the  flutter  of  the  girl's 
flying  skirts.  But  she  did  not  move  to  the  windows, 
nor  make  any  attempt  to  look  down.  She  knew  that 
her  ears  were  her  best  sentinels;  and  motionless, 
scarcely  breathing,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  she 
strained  them  to  the  utmost  to  catch  the  first  sounds  of 
discovery  and  alarm. 

None  reached  her,  and  after  the  lapse  of  a  minute 
she  breathed  more  freel}'.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
waiting-maid — ^glad  to  prolong  her  freedom — did  not 
return.  The  Abbess,  still  listening,  still  intent,  fell  to 
considering,  without  moving  from  the  spot,  other 
things.  Tlie  light  was  beginning  to  wane  in  the  room 
— the  room  she  remembered  so  well — the  corners  were 
growing  shadowy.  All  things  promised  to  favour  and 
prolong  her  disguise.  Between  the  inset  windows  lay 
a  block  of  deep  gloom;  she  had  only  to  fling  herself 
down  in  that  place  and  hide  her  face  on  her  arms,  as 
the  Countess,  in  her  abandonment,  had  hidden  hers, 
and  the  woman  would  discover  nothing  when  she  entered 

377 


378  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

— nothing  until  she  took  courage  to  disturb  the  bride 
— and  would  dress  her. 

The  bride?  Even  in  the  last  minute  the  room  had 
grown  darker — dark  and  vague  as  her  sombre  thoughts. 
But  it  happened  that  amid  its  shadows  one  object  still 
gleamed  white — a  tiny  oasis  of  brightness  in  a  desert  of 
gloom.  The  pile  of  dainty  bride-clothes,  lawn  and  lace, 
that  lay  on  the  window-seat  caught  and  gave  back 
what  light  there  was.  It  seemed  to  concentrate  on 
itself  all  that  remained  of  the  day.  Presently  she  could 
not  take  her  eyes  from  the  things.  They  had  at  first 
repelled  her.  Now,  and  more  powerfully,  they  fasci- 
nated her.  She  dreamed,  with  her  gaze  fixed  on  them; 
and  slowly  the  colour  mounted  to  her  brow,  her  face 
softened,  her  breast  heaved.  She  took  a  step  towards 
the  bride-clothes  and  the  window,  paused,  hesitated; 
and,  flushed  and  frowning,  looked  at  the  door. 

But  no  one  moved  outside,  no  footstep  threatened 
entrance;  and  her  eyes  returned  to  the  lace  and  lawn, 
emblems  of  a  thing  that  from  Eve's  day  to  ours  has 
stirred  women's  hearts.  She  was  not  over-superstitious. 
But  it  could  not  be  for  nothing,  a  .voice  whispered  her 
it  could  not  be  for  nothing  that  tlije  things  lay  there 
and,  while  night  swallowed  all  besides,  still  shone  re- 
splendent in  the  gloaming.  Were  they  not  only  an 
emblem,  but  a  token?  A  sign  to  her,  a  finger  pointing 
through  the  vagueness  of  her  future  to  the  clear  path 
of  safety? 

The  Abbess  had  thought  of  that  path,  that  way  out 
of  her  difficulties,  not  once  only,  nor  twice.  It  had 
lain  too  open,  too  plain  to  be  missed.  But  she  had 
marked  it  only  to  shrink  from  it  as  too  dangerous, 
too  bold  even  for  her.    Were  she  to  take  it  she  must 


THE  BRIDE'S  DOT.  379 

come  into  fatal  collision,  into  irremediable  relations 
with  the  man  whom  she  loved;  but  whom  others 
feared,  and  of  whom  his  little  world  stood  in  an  awe 
so  dire  and  so  significant. 

Yet  still  the  things  beckoned  her ;  and  omens  in  those 
days  went  for  more  than  in  these.  Things  still  done  in 
sport  or  out  of  a  sentimental  affection  for  the  past — 
on  All-hallows'  E'en  or  at  the  new  moon — were  then 
done  seriously,  their  lessons  taken  to  heart,  their  dic- 
tates followed.  The  Abbess  felt  her  heart  beat  high. 
She  trembled  and  shook  on  the  verge  of  a  great  resolve. 

Had  she  time?  The  cloak  slipped  a  little  lower,  dis- 
covering her  bare  shoulders.  She  looked  at  the  door 
and  listened,  looked  again  at  the  pale  bride-clothes. 
The  stillness  encouraged  her,  urged  her.  And,  for 
the  rest,  had  she  not  boasted  a  few  minutes  before  that, 
whoever  feared  him,  she  did  not;  that,  whoever  drifted 
helpless  on  the  tide  of  fate,  she  could  direct  her  hfe,  she 
could  be  strong? 

She  had  the  chance  now  if  she  dared  to  take  it!  If 
she  dared?  Already  she  had  thwarted  him  in  a  thing 
dear  to  him.  She  had  released  his  prisoner,  conveyed 
away  his  bride,  wTecked  his  plans.  Dared  she  thwart 
him  in  this  last,  this  greatest  thing?  Dared  she  engage 
herself  and  him  in  a  bond  from  which  no  power  could 
free  them,  a  bond  that,  the  deed  done,  must  subject  her 
to  his  will  and  pleasure — and  his  wrath — till  death? 

She  did  fear  him,  she  o\\Tied  it.  And  she  had  not 
dared  the  venture  had  she  not  loved  him  more.  But 
love  kicked  the  beam.  Love  won — as  love  ever  wins  in 
such  contests.  Swiftly  her  mind  reviewed  the  position: 
so  much  loss,  so  much  gain.  If  he  would  stand  worse 
here  he  would  stand  better  there.     And  then  she  did  not 


380  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

come  empty-handed.  Fain  would  she  have  come  to 
him  openly  and  proudly,  with  her  dower  in  her  hands, 
as  she  had  dreamed  that  she  would  come.  But  that 
was  not  possible.  Or,  if  it  were  possible,  the  prospect 
was  distant,  the  time  remote;  while,  this  v»'-ay,  love, 
warm,  palpitating,  present  love,  held  out  arms  to  her. 

The  end  was  certain.  For  all  things,  the  time,  the 
gathering  darkness,  her  gaoler's  absence,  seconded  the 
temptation.  Had  she  resisted  longer  she  had  been  more 
than  woman.  As  it  was,  she  had  time  for  all  she  must 
do.  When  the  waiting-maid  returned,  and  glanced 
around  the  darkened  room,  she  was  not  surprised  to  find 
her  crouching  on  the  floor  in  the  posture  in  which  she 
had  left  her,  with  head  bowed  on  the  window-seat. 
But  she  was  surprised  to  see  that  she  had  donned  the 
bride-clothes  set  for  her.  True,  the  shimmer  of  white 
that  veiled  the  head  and  shoulders  agreed  ill  with  the 
despondency  of  the  figure;  but  that  was  to  be  ex- 
pected. And  at  least — the  woman  recognised  with 
reUef — there  would  be  no  need  of  force,  no  scene  of 
violence,  no  cries  to  Heaven.  She  uttered  a  word  of 
thanksgiving  for  that;  and  then,  thinking  that  hght 
would  complete  the  improvement  and  put  a  more 
cheerful  face  on  the  matter,  she  asked  if  she  should 
fetch  candles. 

''For  I  think  the  priest  is  below,  my  lady,"  she  con- 
tinued doubtfully;  she  had  no  mind  to  quarrel  with  her 
future  mistress  if  it  could  be  avoided.  "And  my  lord 
may  be  looked  for  at  any  moment." 

The  crouching  figure  stirred  a  foot  fretfully,  but  did 
not  answer. 

"If  I  might  fetch  them " 

"No!"   sharply. 


THE  BRIDE'S  DOT.  381 

"But,  if  it  please  you,  it  is  nearly  dark.     And " 


"Am  I  not  shamed  enough  already?"  The  bride  as 
she  spoke — ^in  a  tone  half  ruffled,  half  hysterical — raised 
her  arms  with  a  passionate  gesture.  "If  I  must  be 
married  against  my  will,  I  will  be  married  thusl  Thus! 
And  without  more  hght  to  shame  me ! " 

"  Still  it  grows — so  dark,  my  lady ! '.'  the  maid  ventured 
again,  though  timidly. 

"I  tell  you  I  will  have  it  dark!  And" — with  an- 
other movement  as  of  a  trapped  animal — "if  they 
must  come,  bid  them  come!"  Then,  in  a  choking 
voice,  "God  help  me!"  she  murmured,  as  she  let  her 
head  fall  again  on  her  arms. 

The  woman  wondered,  but  felt  no  suspicion;  there 
was  something  of  reason  in  the  demand.  She  went 
and  told  the  elder  woman  who  waited  below.  She  left 
the  room  door  ajar,  and  the  Abbess,  raising  her  pale, 
frowning  face  from  the  wandow-seat,  could  hear  the 
priest's  voice  minghng  in  the  whispered  talk.  Light 
steps  passed  hurriedly  away  through  the  garden,  and 
after  an  interval  came  again;  and  by-and-by  she  heard 
more  steps,  and  voices  under  the  window — and  a 
smothered  laugh,  and  then  a  heavier,  firmer  tread,  and 
— ^his  voice — his!  She  pictured  them  making  way  for 
the  master  to  pass  through  and  enter. 

She  had  need  of  courage  now,  need  of  the  half-breathed 
prayer;  for  there  is  no  cause  so  bad  men  will  not  pray 
in  it.  Need  of  self-control,  too,  lest  she  give  way  and 
fall  in  terror  at  his  feet.  Yet  less  need  of  this  last;  for 
fear  was  in  her  part,  and  natural  to  the  right  playing 
of  it.  So  that  it  was  not  weakness  or  modest  tremors 
or  prostration  would  betray  her. 

She  clutched  this  thought  to  her,   and  had  it  for 


382  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

comfort.  And  when  the  door  opened  to  its  full  width, 
and  they  appeared  on  the  threshold  and  entered,  the 
priest  first,  the  lord  of  Vlaye's  tall  presence  next,  and 
after  these  three  or  four  witnesses,  with  the  two  women 
behind  all,  those  less  concerned  found  nothing  to  marvel 
at  in  the  sight;  nor  in  the  dim  croucliing  figure,  lonely 
in  the  dark  room,  that  rose  unsteadily  and  stood  cower- 
ing against  the  wall,  shrinking  as  if  in  fear  of  a  blow. 
It  was  what  they  had  looked  to  see,  what  they  had 
expected;  and  they  eyed  it,  one  coveting,  another  in 
pity,  seeing  by  the  half-hght  wliich  was  reflected  from 
the  pale  evening  sky  little  more  than  is  here  set  down. 
For  the  priest,  appearances  might  have  been  trebly 
suspicious,  and  he  had  suspected  nothing;  for  he  was 
terribly  afraid  himself.  And  M.  de  \1aye,  ignorant  of 
the  Abbess's  visit  and  exulting  in  the  success  of  his  plan, 
a  success  won  in  the  teeth  of  his  enemy,  had  no  grounds 
for  suspicion.  Even  the  marriage  in  the  gloaming 
seemed  only  natural;  for  modesty  in  a  woman  seems 
natural  to  a  man.  He  was  more  than  content  if  the 
little  fool  would  raise  no  disturbance,  voice  no  cries, 
but  let  herself  be  married  without  the  need  of  open 
force. 

With  something  of  kindness  in  his  tone,  "The  Count- 
ess prefers  it  thus,  does  she?"  he  said,  raising  his  head, 
as  he  took  in  the  scene.  "Then  thus  let  it  be!  Her 
will  is  mine,  and  shall  be  mine.  Still  it  is  dark!  You 
do,  in  fact,  Countess,"  he  continued  smoothly,  "prefer 
it  so?  I  gathered  your  meaning  rightly — from  those 
you  sent?" 

With  averted  face  she  made  a  shamed  gesture  with 
her  hand. 

"You  do  not " 


THE  BRIDE'S  DOT.  383 

"If  it  must  be — let  it  be  so!"  she  whispered.  "And 
now!"  And  suddenly  she  covered  her  face — they  could 
picture  it  working  pitifully — with  her  hands. 

M.  de  Vlaye  turned  to  his  witnesses.  "You  hear 
all  present,"  he  said,  ''that  it  is  with  the  Countess  of 
Rochechouart's  consent  that  I  wed  her.  For  me  it  is 
my  part  now  and  will  be  my  part  always  to  do  her 
pleasure."  Then  turning  his  face  again  to  the  shrink- 
ing figure,  that  uttered  no  protest  or  word  of  com- 
plaint. "Father,  you  hear?"  he  continued,  a  note  of 
triumph  in  his  voice.  "Do  your  office  on  us  I  pray, 
and  quickly."  And  he  advanced  a  step  towards  his 
bride. 

The  Romish  sacrament  of  marriage  is  short,  and 
reduced  to  its  essentials  is  of  the  simplest.  Father 
Benet  had  his  orders,  and  thankful  to  be  so  cheaply 
quit  of  his  task — for  she  might  have  appealed  to  him, 
might  have  shrieked  and  struggled,  might  have  made 
of  his  work  a  public  crime — he  hastened  to  bind  the 
two  together.  For  one  second,  at  the  most  critical 
part  of  the  rite — ^if  that  couid  be  said  to  have  parts 
which  was  done  within  the  minute — the  bride  hung, 
wavered,  hesitated — seemed  about  to  protest  or  faint. 
The  next,  as  by  a  supreme  effort,  she  tottered  a  step 
nearer  to  the  bridegroom,  and  placed  her  hand,  burn- 
ing with  fever,  in  his.  In  a  few  seconds  the  words 
that  made  them  man  and  wife,  the  irrevocable  "Con- 
jungo  vos,"  were  spoken. 

Then  followed  a  single  moment  of  awkwardness.  The 
Captain  of  Vlaye 's  heart  was  high  and  uplifted.  All 
had  gone  well,  all  had  gone  better  than  his  hopes. 
Yet  he  was  prudent  as  he  was  bold.  He  would  fain 
have  raised  her  veil  before  them  all  and  kissed  her,  and 


384  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

proved  beyond  cavil  her  willingness.  But  he  doubted 
the  wisdom  of  the  act.  He  reflected  that  women  were 
strange  beings  and  capricious.  She  might  be  foolish 
enough  to  shriek — more,  to  faint,  to  resist,  to  speak; 
she  might  realise,  now  that  it  was  too  late,  the  thing 
which  she  had  done.  And  a  dozen  curious  eyes  were 
on  them,  were  watching  them,  were  judging  them.  He 
contented  himself  with  bowing  over  her  hand. 

"Would  you  be  alone,  madame?"  he  said  gentl5^ 
"If  so,  say  so,  sweet.  And  you  shall  be  alone,  while 
you  please." 

The  answer,  low  and  half -stifled  as  it  was,  astonished 
him.  "With  you,"  she  murmured,  with  face  half- 
averted.  And  as  the  others,  smiling  and  with  raised 
eyebrows,  looked  at  one  another,  and  then  at  a  glance 
from  him  turned  to  withdraw,  "And  a  light,"  she 
added,  in  the  same  subdued  tone,  "if  you  please." 

"Bring  a  light,"  he  said  to  the  waiting-woman.  "And, 
"lark  you,  see  that  when  your  lady  wants  supper  it  be 
ready  for  her." 

She  had  still,  before  they  withdrew,  a  surprise  for 
him.  "I  would  have  a  draught  of  wine — ^now,"  she 
murmured. 

He  passed  the  order  to  them  with  a  gay  air,  thinking 
the  while  of  the  queer  nature  of  women.  And  he 
stood  waiting  by  the  door  until  the  order  was  carried 
out.  The  footsteps  of  the  witnesses  and  their  laughter 
rose  from  the  garden  below  as  the  maid  brought  in 
lights  and  wine  and  set  them  on  the  table  beside  him. 
"You  can  go,"  he  said;  and  after  a  fleeting  glance,  half 
of  envy,  half  of  wonder  at  her  new  mistress — who  had 
sunk  into  a  sitting  posture  on  the  window-seat — the 
woman  went  out. 


THE  BRIDE'S  DOT.  385 

"May  I  serve  you?"  he  murmured  gallantly.  And 
he  poured  for  her. 

With  her  face  turned  from  him  she  Hfted  the  gauzy 
veil  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other — it  trembled 
violently — she  raised  the  wine  to  her  lips.  Still  with 
her  shoulder  to  him — but  he  set  this  down  to  modesty 
— she  gave  him  back  the  empty  cup,  and  he  went  and 
set  it  down  on  the  table  beside  the  door.  When  he 
turned  again  to  her  she  had  raised  her  veil  and  risen 
to  her  feet,  and  stood  facing  him  with  shining  eyes. 

'^By  Heaven!"  he  cried.  And  he  recoiled  a  pace,  his 
swarthy  face  gone  sallow.  Was  he  mad?  Was  he 
dreaming?  The  priest  had  been  silent  on  the  Abbess's 
visit.  He  believed  her  leagues  distant.  He  had  no 
reason  to  think  otherwise.  And  he  had  not  been  more 
astonished  if  the  one  woman  had  turned  into  the  other 
before  his  eyes.  "By  Heaven!"  he  repeated.  For  the 
moment  sheer  astonishment,  the  stupor  of  bewilder- 
ment, held  him  dumb. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  neither  did  she  quail.  She 
stood  confronting  him,  erect  and  stately,  her  beauty 
never  more  remarkable  than  now,  h^r  breast  heaving 
slightly  under  the  lace. 

"Am  I  mad?"  he  muttered  again.  And  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  opened  them.     "Or  dreaming?" 

' '  Neither ! ' '  she  replied . 

"Then  who  in  God's  name  are  you?"  he  retorted,  in 
something  approaching  his  natural  voice;  though  the 
awe  of  the  unnatural  still  held  his  mind. 

"Your  wife,"  she  answered. 

"My  wife!"  With  the  words  the  full  shock  of  that 
which  had  happened  struck  him. 

"Your  wife,"  she  rejoined  unblenching,  though  her 


386  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

heart  beat  wildly,  furiously,  in  her  bosom,  and  she 
feared,  ah,  how  she  feared!  ''Your  wife!  And  which 
of  us  two" — she  continued  proudly — "has  a  better 
right  to  be  your  wife?  I," — and  with  the  word  she 
flung  the  lace  superbly  from  her  head  and  shoulders, 
and  stood  before  him  in  the  full  splendour  of  her  beauty 
—"or  that  child?  That  puny  weakhng?  That  doll? 
I,"  with  increasing  firmness — he  had  not  struck  her 
yet! — "who  have  your  vows,  sir,  your  promises,  your 
sacred  oath — and  all  my  due,  as  God  knows  and  you 
know — or  that  puppet?  I,  who  dare,  and  for  your  sake 
have  dared — you  know  it  only  too  well ! — or  that  craven, 
puling  and  weeping  and  waiting  for  the  first  chance  to 
flee  you  or  betray  you?  What  I  have  done  for  you" — - 
and  proudly  she  held  out  her  hands  to  him — "you 
know,  sir.  What  she  would  have  done  you  know 
not." 

"I  know  that  you  have  ruined  me,"  he  said,  looking 
darkly  at  her. 

"And  in  return  for — what?"  she  answered,  with  a 
look  as  dark. 

His  nostrils  quivered,  a  pulse  beat  hard  in  his  cheek. 
Only  the  sheer  boldness  of  that  which  she  had  done, 
only  the  appeal  of  the  lioness  in  her  to  the  lion  in  him — 
and  her  beauty — held  his  hand;  held  his  hand  from 
striking  her  down,  woman  though  she  was,  at  his  feet. 
Had  she  faltered,  had  she  turned  pale  or  trembled,  had 
she  uttered  but  one  word  of  supplication,  or  done  aught 
but  defy  him,  he  had  flung  her  brutally  to  the  floor  and 
trampled  upon  her. 

For  the  Captain  of  Vlaye  was  no  knight  of  romance. 
And  no  scruple  on  his  part,  no  helplessness  on  hers 
would    have    restrained    his    hand.      But    he    loved 


THE  BRIDE'S  DOT.  387 

her  after  his  fashion.  He  loved  her  beauty,  which 
had  never  been  more  brihiant  or  alluring;  he  loved 
the  spirit  that  proved  her  fit  helpmeet  for  such  as 
he.  And  thwarted,  tricked,  baffled,  hanging  still  on 
the  verge  of  violence  over  which  the  least  recoil  on 
her  part  would  push  him,  he  still  owned  reason  in 
her  claim.  She  was  the  more  worthy — of  the  two ;  such 
beauty,  such  spirit,  such  courage  would  go  far.  And 
not  many  weeks  back  he  had  looked  no  higher,  aimed 
no  farther,  but  had  deemed  her  birth  fit  dower.  But 
love  Bits  lightly  on  the  ambitious,  and  driven  by  a 
new  danger  to  a  new  shift,  forced  to  look  abroad  for  aid, 
he  had  put  her  aside  at  the  first  temptation — not 
without  a  secret  thought  that  she  might  be  still  what 
she  had  been  to  him. 

Her  eyes,  her  words  told  a  different  story,  and  in  his 
secret  heart  he  gave  her  credit  for  her  act ;  and  he  held 
his  hand.  But  his  looks  were  dark  and  bitter  and 
passionate,  as  he  told  her  again  that  she  had  ruined 
him,  and  flung  it  coarsely  in  her  face  that  she  brought 
herself,  and  naught  besides  to  the  bargain. 

"It  is  but  a  httle  since  you  thought  that  enough!" 
she  replied,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  You  are  bold  to  speak  to  me  thus !"  he  said  between 
his  teeth.  "What?  You  that  call  yourself  my  wife, 
to  beard  me!" 

"That  am  your  wife!"  she  answered,  though  sick 
fear  rapped  at  her  heart. 

"Then  for  that  the  greater  need  to  heed  what  you 
say!"  he  replied.  "Wives  that  come  empty-handed 
to  husbands  that  ask  them  not  had  best  be  silent  and 
be  patient!  Or  in  a  very  little  time  they  creep  as 
low  as  before  they  went  high!    You  beautiful  fool!" 


388  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

he  continued,  in  a  tone  of  mingled  rage  and  admiration, 
"  to  do  this  in  haste  and  forget  I  could  punish  at  leisure ! 
To  do  me  ill,  ay,  to  rum  me,  and  forget  that  henceforth 
my  pleasure  must  be  yours,  my  will  your  rule!  My 
wife,  say  you?"  with  increasing  bitterness.  "Ay! 
And  therefore  my  creature,  helpless  as  the  sculHon  I 
send  to  the  scourge,  or  the  trooper  I  hang  up  by  the 
heels  for  sleeping!  You— you "  and  with  a  move- 
ment as  fierce  as  it  was  sudden  he  grasped  her  wrist 
and  twisted  her  round  forcibly  so  that  her  eyes  at 
close  quarters  looked  into  his.  "  Do  you  not  yet  repent? 
Do  you  not  begin  to  see  that  in  tricking  the  Captam  of 
Vlaye  you  have  made  your  master?" 

She  could  have  screamed  with  pain,  for  the  bones  of 
her  slender  wrist  seemed  to  be  cracking  in  his  cruel 
grip — but  she  knew  that  in  her  courage,  and  in  that 
only,  lay  her  one  hope.  "I  know  this,"  she  repHed 
hardily,  forcmg  herself  to  meet  his  eyes  without  fimch- 
ing,  "that  you  mistake!  I  do  not  come  empty — or  I 
had  not  come,"  with  pride.  "I  bring  you  that  will  save 
you — if  you  treat  me  well.     But  if  you  hold  me  so " 

"What  will  you  do?"  savagely. 

"Release  me  and  I  will  tell  you,"  she  answered.  "I 
shall  not  fly.  And  if  I  say  nothmg  to  the  purpose,  I 
shall  still  be  in  your  power." 

He  yielded,  moved  in  secret  by  her  spirit.  "Well," 
he  said,  "speak!  But  let  it  be  to  the  purpose,  madam, 
that  is  aU." 

"Said  I  not  it  should  be  to  the  purpose?"  she  an- 
swered, her  eyes  bright.  "And  I  keep  my  word,  if 
you  do  not.  Tell  me,  sir,  frankly,  what  had  that  child, 
that  doll" — bitterly — "to  put  in  the  scales  against  me? 
Beauty?" 


THE  BRIDE'S  DOT.  389 

"Nay!" 

"A  skin  as  white  as  mine  or  arms  as  round?"  She 
held  them  out  to  him.  "Or  brighter  eyes?  You  have 
looked  in  mine  often  enough  and  sworn  you  loved  me, 
sworn  that  you  would  do  me  no  wrong!  You  should 
know  them — and  hers!" 

"It  was  none  of  these. " 

"Her  birth?  Nay,  but  she  is  no  better  born  than  I 
am!  A  Rochechouart  is  what  a  Yilleneuve  was.  Her 
rank?    No.     Then  what  was  it?  " 

"No  one  thing, "  he  answered  drily.  "But  five  hun- 
dred things. " 

"Spears?" 

"You  are  quick-witted.     Spears." 

"And  her  manors  also,  I  suppose?"  with  contempt. 
"Her  lordships  here  and  there!  Her  farms  and  castles 
in  Poitou  and  the  Limousin  and  Beauce  and  the  Dor- 
dogne!  Her  mills  in  the  Bourbonnais  and  her  fishings 
in  Sologne!" 

"Not  one  of  these!" 

"No?'^ 

"The  spears  only,  as  God  sees  me!"  he  answered 
firmly.  "For  without  these  I  could  enjoy  not  the 
smallest  of  those.  Without  these,  of  which  you,  beauti- 
ful fool,  have  robbed  me — robbing  me  therewith  of  my 
last  chance — I  take  no  farm  nor  smallest  mill,  nor  hold 
one  groat  of  that  I  have  won!  Do  you  think,  my 
girl,"  he  continued  grimly,  "that  I  was  not  pressed 
when  I  gave  up  your  Hps  and  your  kisses  for  that  child's 
company?  Do  you  think  it  was  for  a  whim,  a  fancy, 
a  light  thing  that  I  turned  my  back  on  you  and  your 
smiles,  and  at  risk  sought  a  puling  girl,  when  I  could 
have  had  you  without  risk?     P>ah!    I  tell  you  it  was 


390  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

not  to  gain,  but  to  hold — because  he  had  no  other 
choice  and  no  other  way — it  was  not  for  love  but 
for  hfe,  that  the  Eng  went  to  his  Mass!  And  I  to 
mine ! " 

"All  this  I  thought,"  she  said  quietly.  She  was  no 
longer  afraid  of  him. 

"You  thought  it?'! 

"I  knew  it." 

"  You  knew  it?  You  knew,  madam,"  he  repeated,  his 
face  darkening,  "on  what  a  narrow  edge  I  stood,  and 
you  dashed  away  my  one  holdfast?" 

"To  replace  it  by  another,"  she  replied,  her  figure 
welling  with  confidence.  "I  tell  you,  sir,  I  come  not 
to  you  empty-handed,  if  I  come  unasked.  I  bring  my 
dowry. " 

He  eyed  her  gloomily.  "It  should  be  a  large  one," 
he  muttered,  "if  it  is  to  take  the  place  of  that  I  have 
lost. " 

"It  is  a  large  one,"  she  answered.  "But,"  with  a 
change  to  gentleness,  "do  me  credit.  I  have  not  puled 
nor  wept.  I  have  uttered  no  cry,  I  have  made  no  com- 
plaint. But  I  have  righted  myself,  doing  what  not  one 
woman  in  a  hundred  would  have  dared  to  do !  I  have 
wit  that  has  tricked  you,  and  courage  that  has  not 
quailed  before  you.  And  henceforward  I  claim  to  be 
no  puppet  for  your  play,  no  doll  for  your  dull  hours! 
But  your  equal,  my  lord,  and  your  mate;  deepest  in 
your  counsels,  the  heart  of  your  plans,  your  other 
brain,  your  other  soul!  Make  me  this,  hold  me  thus — 
close  to  you,  and 

"Is  that  the  thing  you  bring  me?"  he  said,  with  sar- 
casm.    Yet  she  had  moved  him, 

"No!"    She  fell  a  little  from  her  height,  she  looked 


THE  BRIDE'S  DOT.  391 

appeal.  "My  dowry  is  different.  But  say  first,  sir,  I 
shall  be  this!" 

"  Bring  me  the  spears, "  he  answered,  his  eyes  gleam- 
ing, "and  you  shall  be  that  and  more.     Bring  me  the 

spears,  and "    He  made  as  if  he  would  take  her 

forcibly  in  his  arms. 

She  recoiled,  but  her  eyes  shone.  "I  am  yours,"  she 
said,  "when  you  will!  Do  you  not  know  it?  But,  for 
the  present,  hsten.  I  have  a  husband,  but  I  have  also 
a  lover.  A  lover  of  whom  " — she  continued  more  slowly, 
marking  with  joy  how  he  started  at  the  word — "my  lord 
and  master  has  no  need  to  be  jealous.  He  has  not 
touched  of  me  more  than  the  tips  of  my  fingers;  yet  if 
I  raise  but  those  fingers  he  has  spears  and  to  spare — 
five  hundred  and  five  hundred  to  that! — and  I  have 
but  to  play  the  laggard  a  Uttle,  and  dangle  a  hope,  and 
they  dance  to  my  piping. " 

He  understood.  A  deep  flush  tinged  the  brown  of 
his  lean  face.  "You  have  brought,"  he  said,  "the 
Duke  to  parley." 

"'To  parley!"  She  pointed  superbly  to  the  floor. 
"Nay,  but  to  my  feet!  What  will  you  of  him?  Spears, 
his  good  word,  his  intercession  with  the  King,  a  post? 
Name  what  you  will,  and  it  shall  be  yours. " 

He  looked  at  her  shrewdly,  with  a  new  admiration,  a 
new  and  stronger  esteem.  Already  she  filled  the  place 
which  she  had  claimed,  already  she  was  to  him  what  she 
had  prayed  to  be.     "You  are  sure?"  he  said. 

"In  a  week,  had  I  not  loved  you,  I  had  had  him  and 
his  Duchy,  and  all  those  spears !  And  mills  and  manors 
and  lordships  and  governments,  all  had  been  mine,  sir! 
Mine,  had  I  wished  this  man;  mine,  had  I  been  wilHng 
to  take  him !    But  I " — letting  her  arms  fall  by  her  sides 


392  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

and  standing  submissive  before  him — "am  more  faith> 
ful  than  my  master!" 

He  stood  staring  at  her.  "But  if  this  be  so,"  he 
said  at  last,  his  brows  coming  together,  "what  of  it? 
How  does  it  help  us?    You  are  now  my  wife?"i 

"He  need  not  know  that  yet." 

"No?'^ 

"He  need  not  know  it,"  she  continued  firmly,  "until 
he  has  played  his  part,  and  wrung  your  pardon  from 
the  King!  Or  at  the  least — for  that  may  take  time — 
until  he  has  drawn  off  his  power  and  left  you  to  face 
those  whom  you  can  easily  match!" 

"He  would  have  wedded  you?"  he  asked,  eyeing  her 
in  wonder. 

"For  certain." 

"But,  sweet " 

"I  am  sweet  now!"  she  said,  with  tender  raillery. 

"To  do  this  you  must  go  to  him?" 

"He  shall  touch  of  me  no  more  than  the  tips  of  my 
fingers,"  she  answered  smiling.  "Nor" — and  at  the 
word  a  blush  stole  upward  from  her  neck  to  her  brow, 
"need  I  go  on  the  instant,  if  your  men  can  be  trusted 
not  to  talk,  my  lord." 

"He  is  soon  without  a  tongue,"  he  replied  grimly, 
"who  talks  too  fast  here!  You  should  know  that  of 
old." 

She  lowered  her  eyes,  the  colour  mounting  anew  to 
her  brow.  "Yes,"  she  murmured.  " I  know  that  your 
people  can  be  silent.  But  the  Lieutenant  of  P^rigord 
is  here.  You  have  not" — ^with  a  quick,  frightened 
look — "  injured  him?" 

"Have  no  fear." 

"For    that    were    fatal,"  she    continued    anxiously. 


THE  BRIDE'S  DOT.  393 

"Fatal!  If  things  go  wrong,  he  may  prove  our 
safety." 

"Poon,  I  know  it  well,"  Vlaye  replied,  with  a  nod  of 
intelligence.  "None  better,  my  girl.  But  have  no 
fear,  he  will  hear  naught  of  our  doings.  Not,  I  sup- 
pose"— with  a  searching  look,  half  humorous,  half 
suspicious — "that  he  is  also  a  captive  of  your  bow 
and  spear." 

"I  hate  him,"  she  answered. 

Her  tone,  vehement,  yet  low,  struck  the  corresponding 
chord  in  his  nature.  He  took  her  into  his  arms  with  a 
reckless  laugh.  "You  were  right  and  I  was  wrong  1" 
he  cried,  as  he  fondled  her.  "You  will  bring  me  more 
than  a  clump  of  spears,  my  beauty!  ]\Iore  than  that 
foolish  child!  God!  In  a  month  I  had  strangled  her! 
But  you  and  I — you  and  I,  sweet,  will  go  far  together! 
And  now,  to  supper!  To  supper  1  And  the  devil  take 
to-morrow  and  our  cares!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


FORS   L 'AMOUR. 


Though  it  was  not  des  Ageaux'  fate  to  lie  in  one  of 
those  underground  dungeons,  noisome  and  dark,  which 
the  lords  of  an  earlier  century  had  provided  in  the 
foundations  of  the  castle,  he  was  not  greatly  tne  better 
for  the  immunity.  The  humiliations  of  the  mind  are 
sometimes  sharper  than  the  pains  of  the  body;  and  the 
Lieutenant  of  Perigord,  defeated  and  a  prisoner,  was 
little  the  happier  though  a  dry  strong-room  looking  on 
a  tiny  inner  court  held  him,  and  though  he  suffered 
nothing  from  cold  or  the  slimy  companionship  of  the 
ne\\i}  and  frog.  On  the  ambitious  man  defeat  sits  more 
heavily  than  chains ;  into  the  nature  that  would  fain  be 
at  work  inaction  gnaws  deeper  than  a  shackle-bolt. 
Never  while  he  lived  would  des  Ageaux  forget  the  long 
hours  which  he  spent,  gazing  drearily  on  the  blank  wall 
that  faced  his  window,  while  his  mind  measured  a 
hundred  times  over  the  depth  and  the  completeness  of 
his  fall. 

He  feared  little  for  his  life  if  he  deigned  to  fear  at  all. 
He  knew  that  he  was  a  prize  too  valuable  to  be  wasted. 
In  the  last  resort,  indeed,  when  all  hopes  had  failed  the 
Captain  of  Vlaye,  and  ruin  stared  him  in  the  face,  he 
might  wreak  his  vengeance  on  the  King's  governor, 

394 


FORS  L'AMOUR.  395 

But  short  of  that  moment — and  it  depended  upon  many 
things — the  Lieutenant  accounted  liimself  safe.  Safe  as 
to  life,  but  a  beaten  man,  a  prisoner,  a  failure;  a  blot, 
every  moment  he  lay  there,  on  the  King's  dignity, 
whose  deputy  he  was;  an  unfortunate,  whose  ill  hap 
would  never  be  forgiven  by  the  powers  he  nad  repre- 
sented so  ill. 

The  misfortune  was  great,  and,  to  a  proud  man,  well- 
nigh  intolerable.  Moreover,  this  man  was  so  formed 
that  he  loved  the  order  which  it  was  his  mission  to 
extend,  and  the  good  government  which  it  was  his  to 
impose.  To  make  straight  the  crooked — gently,  if  it 
might  be,  but  by  the  strong  hand  if  it  must  be — was  his 
part  in  life,  and  one  which  he  pursued  witn  the  utmost 
zest.  Every  breach  of  order,  therefore,  every  trespass 
in  his  province,  every  outrage  wounded  him.  But  tne 
breach  and  the  trespass  which  abased  in  his  person 
the  King's  name — he  writhed,  he  groaned  as  he  thought 
of  this!  Even  the  blow  to  his  career,  fatal  as  it  prom- 
ised to  be,  scarce  hurt  him  worse  or  cut  him  so  deeply. 

The  more  as  that  career  which  had  been  all  in  all  to 
him  yesterday  was  not  quite  all  in  all  to  him  to-day. 
Bonne's  voice,  the  touch  of  her  hands  as  she  appealed 
to  him,  the  contact  of  her  figure  with  his  as  he  carried 
her,  these  haunted  him,  and  moved  him,  in  his  solitude 
and  his  humiliation.  Her  courage,  her  constancy,  her 
appeal  to  him,  when  all  seemed  lost,  he  could  not  think 
of  them — he  who  had  thought  of  naught  but  himself 
for  years — ^without  a  softening  of  his  features,  without 
a  flood  of  colour  invading  the  darkness  of  his  face. 
Strong,  he  had  estranged  himself  from  the  tender 
emotions,  only  to  own  their  sway  now.  With  half  his 
mind  he  dwelt  upon  his  mishap;    the  other  haK,  the 


396  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

better  half,  found  consolation  in  the  prospect  of  her 
sympathy,  of  her  fidelity,  of  her  gentle  eyes  and  quiver- 
ing lips — ^who  loved  him.  He  found  it  strange  to 
remember  that  he  filled  all  a  woman's  thoughts;  that, 
as  he  sat  there  brooding  in  his  prison,  she  was  thinking 
of  him  and  dreaming  of  him,  and  perhaps  praying  for 
him  1 

It  is  not  gladly,  it  is  never  without  a  pang  that  the 
man  of  affairs  sees  the  world  pass  from  him.  And  if 
there  be  nothing  left,  it  is  bad  for  him.  Des  Ageaux 
acknowledged  that  he  had  something  left.  A  hand  he 
could  trust  would  lie  in  his,  and  one  brave  heart,  when 
all  others  forsook  him  would  accompany  him  whither 
he  went.  He  might  no  longer  aspire  to  government  and 
the  rule  of  men,  the  work  of  his  life  was  over;  but 
Bonne  would  hold  to  him  none  the  less,  would  love  him 
none  the  less,  would  believe  in  him  truly.  The  cares  of 
power  would  no  longer  trouble  his  head,  or  keep  it 
sleepless;  but  her  gentle  breast  would  pillow  it,  her 
smiles  would  comfort  him,  her  company  replace  the 
knot  of  followers  to  whom  he  had  become  accustomed. 
He  told  himself  that  he  was  content.  He  more  than 
haK  believed  it. 

In  the  present,  however,  he  had  not  her  company; 
and  the  present  was  very  miserable.  He  did  not  fear 
for  his  life,  but  he  lay  in  ignorance  of  all  that  had 
happened  since  his  capture,  of  all  that  went  forward; 
and  the  tedium  of  imprisonment  tried  him.  He  knew 
that  he  might  lie  there  weeks  and  months  and  come 
forth  at  last— for  the  world  moved  quickly  in  this 
period  of  transition — to  find  himself  forgotten.  Seventy 
years  earher,  a  king,  misnamed  the  Great,  standing 
where  he  stood,  had  said  that  all  was  lost  but  honour 


FORS  L' AMOUR.  397 

— and  had  hastened  to  throw  that  also  away.  For 
him  all  was  lost  but  love.     All ! 

He  had  passed  four  days — they  seemed  to  him  a 
fortnight — in  this  weary  inaction,  and  on  the  last 
evenmg  of  the  four  he  was  expecting  his  supper  with 
impatience,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  place 
was  more  noisy  than  ordinary.  For  some  time  sounds 
had  reached  him  without  making  any  definite  impres- 
sion on  his  mind;  now  they  resolved  themselves  into 
echoes  of  distant  merry-making.  Little  spirts  of 
laughter,  the  catch  of  a  drinkmg-song,  the  shrill  squeal 
of  a  maid  pinched  or  kissed,  the  lilt  of  a  hautboy — ^he 
began  with  quickened  ears  to  make  these  out.  And 
straightway  that  notion  which  is  never  out  of  a  pris- 
oner's mind  and  which  the  least  departure  from  rou- 
tine fosters  raised  its  head.  Escape!  Ah,  if  he  could 
escape!  I'reedom  would  set  him  where  he  had  been, 
freedom  would  undo  the  worst  of  his  mishap.  It 
might  even  give  him  the  victory  he  had  counted  lost. 

But  the  grated  window  or  the  barred  door,  the  paved 
floor  or  the  oaken  roof — one  of  these  must  be  pierced; 
or  the  gaoler,  who  never  visited  him  without  precau- 
tions and  company,  must  be  overcome  and  robbed  of 
his  keys.  And  even  then,  with  that  done  which  was 
well-nigh  impossible,  he  would  be  little  nearer  to  free- 
dom than  before.  He  would  be  still  in  the  heart  of 
his  enemy's  fortress,  with  no  knowledge  of  the  pas- 
sages or  the  turnings,  no  clue  to  the  stone  labyrinth 
about  him,  no  accomphce. 

Yet,  beyond  doubt,  there  was  merry-making  afoot — 
such  merry-making  as  accounted  for  the  tarrying  of  his 
supper.  Probably  the  man  had  forgotten  him.  By- 
and-by  the  notes  of  the  hautboy  rose  louder  and  fuller, 


398  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

and  on  the  wave  of  sound  bursts  of  applause  and  laugh- 
ter  came  to  him.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  some 
were  dancing  and  others  were  looking  on  and  encourag- 
ing them.  Could  it  be  that  the  Captain  of  Vlaye  had 
surprised  the  peasants'  camp?  and  that  this  was  his 
way  of  celebrating  his  success?  Or  was  it  merely  some 
common-place  orgie,  held,  it  might  be,  in  the  Captain's 

absence?    Or But  while  he  turned  this  and  that 

in  his  thoughts  the  footsteps  he  had  been  expecting 
sounded  at  the  end  of  the  stone  passage  and  approached. 
A  Hght  shone  under  the  door,  a  key  turned  in  the  lock, 
and  the  man  who  brought  him  his  meals  appeared  on 
the  threshold.  He  entered,  his  hands  full,  while  his 
comrade,  who  had  opened  for  him,  remained  in  the 
passa,ge. 

"You  are  gay  this  evening?"  the  Lieutenant  said  as 
the  man  set  down  his  light. 

The  fellow  grinned.  "Ay,  my  lord,"  he  replied 
good-humouredly,  "you  may  say  it.  Wedding-bells  and 
the  rest  of  it!"  He  was  not  drunk,  but  he  was  flush- 
ed with  wine.  "That  is  the  way  the  world  goes — and 
comes." 

"A  wedding?"  des  Ageaux  exclaimed.  The  news  was 
strange. 

"To  be  sure,  my  lord. 

'  En  revenant  des  noces, 
Barabim ! ' " 

he  hummed. 

"And  whose,  my  man?" 

The  fellow,  in  the  act  of  putting  a  bowl  of  soup  on 
the  table,  held  his  hand.  He  looked  at  the  Lieutenant 
with  a  grin.  "Ay,  whose?"  he  said.  "But  that  would 
be  talking.     And  we  have  orders  not  to  talk,  see  you. 


FORS  L' AMOUR.  399 

my  lord.  Still,  it  is  not  many  you'll  have  the  chance 
of  telling.  And,  if  I  tell  you  it  is  the  Captain  himself, 
what  matter?  Should  we  be  footing  it  and  driaking 
it  and  the  rest  for  another?" 

"M.  de  Vlaye  married?"  des  Ageaux  exclaimed  in 
astonishment.     "  To-day  ?  " 

"Married  for  sure,  and  as  tight  as  Father  Benet 
could  marry  him!  But  to-day" — ^with  his  head  on  one 
side — "that  is  another  matter." 

"And  the  bride?" 

"Ay,  that  is  another  matter,  too!"  with  a  wink. 
"Not  that  you  can  let  it  out  to  many  either!  So,  if 
you  must  know " 

"Best  not,"  intervened  his  comrade  in  the  passage, 
speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"Perhaps  you  do  not  know  yourself?"  the  Lieu- 
tenant said  shrewdly.  He  saw  that  the  man  was  suffi- 
ciently in  drink  to  be  imprudent.  With  a  little  provo- 
cation he  would  tell. 

"Not  know?" — with  indignation.     "Didn't  I " 

"Know  or  not,  don't  tell!"   growled  the  other. 

"Of  course,"  said  des  Ageaux,  "if  you  don't  know  you 
cannot  tell." 

"OhI':  the  fool  rejomed.  "Cannot  I?  Well,  I  car 
tell  you  it  is  Mademoiselle  de  Villeneuve.  So  there's 
for  knowing!" 

Des  Ageaux  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  transformed. 
"What!"   he  cried.     "Say  that  again!" 

But  his  excitement  overreached  itself.  His  move- 
ment warned  the  other  that  he  had  spoken  too  freely. 
With  an  uneasy  look — what  had  he  done? — ^he  refused 
to  say  more,  and  backed  to  the  door.  "I  have  said  too 
much  already,"  he  muttered  sullenly. 


400  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 


"But 


"  Don't  answer  him  I"  commanded  the  man  in  the 
passage.  "And  hurry  1  You  have  stayed  too  long  as 
it  is!  I  wculd  not  be  in  your  shoes  for  something  if 
the  Captain  comes  to  know." 

Des  Ageaux  stepped  forward,  pressing  him  again  to 
speak.  But  the  man,  sobered  and  frightened,  was  ob- 
durate. "I've  said  too  much  already,"  he  answered 
with  a  resentful  scowl.  "  What  is  it  to  you,  my  lord?" 
And  he  slipped  out.  hurriedly,  and  secured  the  door 
behind  him. 

Des  Ageaux  remained  glaring  at  the  closed  door. 
Bonne  de  Villeneuve  had  been  taken  with  him.  Bonne 
de  Villeneuve  also  was  a  prisoner.  Was  it  possible 
that  she  had  become  by  force  or  wilhngly  Vlaye's 
bride?  Possible?  All,  God,  it  must  be  sol  And,  if 
so,  by  force  surely!  Surely,  by  force;  his  faith  in  her 
told  him  tnat  1  But  if  by  force,  what  consolation  could 
he  draw  from  that?  For  that,  if  he  loved  her,  were 
worst  of  all,  most  cruel  of  ah!  That  were  a  thing  intol- 
erable by  God  or  man  I 

So  it  seemed  to  this  man,  who  only  a  few  days  before 
had  not  known  what  love  was.  But  wiio  now,  stung 
with  sudden  passion,  flung  himself  from  wall  to  wall  of 
his  narrow  prison.  Now,  when  he  saw  it  snatched 
from  him,  now,  when  he  saw  himself  denuded  of  that 
solace  at  which  he  had  grasped,  but  for  which  he  had 
not  been  sufficiently  thankful,  now  he  learned  what 
love  was,  its  pains  as  well  as  its  promise,  its  burning 
fevers,  its  heart-stabbing  pity!  He  lost  himself  in 
rage.  He  who  for  years  had  practised  himself  in 
calmness,  who  had  made  it  his  aim  to  hide  his  heart, 
forgot   his   lessor,   flung   to   the  night  his  habit.     H^ 


FORS  L' AMOUR.  401 

seized  the  iron  bars  of  his  window  and  shook  them 
in  a  paroxysm  of  fury,  as  if  only  by  violence  he  could 
retain  his  sanity.  When  the  bars,  which  would  have 
resisted  the  strength  of  ten,  declined  to  leave  the  stone, 
he  flung  himself  on  the  door,  and  beat  on  it  and  shouted, 
maddened  by  the  thought  that  she  was  under  the  same 
roof,  that  she  was  within  call,  yet  he  could  not  help 
her  I  He  called  Vlaye  by  dreadful  names,  challenging 
him,  and  defying  him,  and  promising  him  terrible 
deaths.  And  only  when  echo  and  silence  answered 
all  and  the  iron  sense  of  his  helplessness  settled  down 
slowly  upon  him  and  numbed  his  faculties  did  he,  too, 
fall  silent  and,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  stagger 
to  a  seat  and  sit  in  a  stupor  of  despair. 

He  had  put  love  aside,  he  had  despised  it  through 
years — for  this!  He  had  held  it  cheap  when  it  prom- 
ised to  be  his — for  this!  He  had  accepted  it  grudg- 
ingly, and  when  all  else  was  like  to  fail  him — for  this! 
He  was  punished,  and  sorely.  She  was  near  him. 
He  pictured  her  in  the  man's  power,  in  the  man's 
hands,  in  the  man's  arms!  And  he  could  not  help 
her. 

Had  his  impotent  cries  and  threats  been  heard  they 
had  only  covered  him  with  humiliation.  Fortunately 
they  were  not  heard:  the  merry-making  was  at  its 
height,  and  no  one  came  near  him.  The  Captain  of 
Vlaye,  aware  that  his  marriage  could  not  be  hidden 
from  his  own  men — for  he  had  made  no  secret  of  it 
beforehand — had  not  ventured  to  forbid  some  indul- 
gence. He  could  make  it  known  that  the  man  who 
named  his  bride  outside  the  gate  would  lose  his  tongue; 
but,  that  arranged,  he  must  wink — for  every  despotism 
is  tempered  by  something — at  a  few  hours  of  riot,  and 


402  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

affect  not  to  see  things  that  at  another  time  had  called 
for  swift  retribution. 

The  men  had  used  liis  permission  to  the  full.  They 
had  brought  in  some  gipsies  to  make  sport  for  them, 
a  treble  allowance  of  wine  was  on  draught,  and  the  hour 
that  saw  des  Ageaux  beating  in  impotent  fury  on  his 
door  saw  the  license  and  uproar  of  which  he  had  marked 
the  beginning  grown  to  a  head.  In  the  great  hall  the 
higher  officers,  their  banquet  finished,  were  deep  in 
their  cups.  In  the  cavernous  kitchens  drunken  cooks 
probed  cauldrons  for  the  stray  capon  that  still  floated 
amid  the  spume;  or  half-naked  scullions  thrust  a  for- 
gotten duck  or  widgeon  on  the  spit  at  the  request  of  a 
hungry  friend.  About  the  fires  in  the  courtyard  were 
dancing  and  singing  and  some  romping;  for  there 
were  women  within  the  walls,  and  others  had  come  in 
with  the  gipsies.  Here  a  crowd  surrounded  the  bear, 
and  laid  furious  bets  for  or  against;  while  yelps  and 
growls  and  fierce  barkings  deafened  all  within  hearing. 
There  a  girl,  the  centre  of  a  leering  ring,  danced  to  the 
music  of  her  tambour;  and  there  again  a  lad  tumbled, 
and  climbed  a  pole  at  risk  of  his  limbs.  Everywhere, 
save  in  the  dark  garden  under  the  "demoiselle's" 
windows,  where  a  sentry  walked,  and  at  the  great  gates, 
where  were  some  sober  men  picked  for  the  purpose, 
wantonness  and  jollity  held  reign,  and  the  noise  of  brawl- 
ing and  riot  cast  fear  on  the  town  that  hstened  and 
quaked  below. 

A  stranger  entering  the  castle  would  have  judged 
the  reins  quite  fallen,  all  discipHne  fled,  all  control  lost. 
But  he  had  been  wrong.  Not  only  did  a  sentry  walk 
the  garden  path — and  soberly  and  shrewdly  too — but 
no  man  in  his  wildest  and  tipsiest  moment  ventured  a 


FORS  L'MIOUR.  403 

foot  witliin  the  railing  that  fenced  the  hme  avenue, 
or  even  approached  the  gates  that  led  to  it  without 
lowering  his  voice  and  returning  to  something  Uke  his 
normal  state.  For  in  the  rooms  looking  over  the  gar- 
den M.  de  Vlaye  entertained  his  bride  of  two  days — 
and  he  had  relaxed,  not  loosed,  the  reins. 

They  sat  supping  in  the  room  in  wbjch  they  had  been 
wedded,  and,  unmoved  by  the  sounds  of  uproar  that 
came  fitfully  to  their  ears,  discussed  their  plans;  she, 
glowing  and  handsome,  animated  by  present  love  and 
future  hope;  he,  content,  if  not  enraptured,  conquered 
by  her  wit,  and  almost  persuaded  that  all  was  for  the 
best — that  her  charms  and  beauty  would  secure  him 
more  than  the  dowry  of  her  rival.  Their  brief  honey- 
moon over,  they  were  to  part  on  the  morrow;  she  to 
pursue  her  plans  for  the  Duke's  detachment,  he  to 
take  the  field  and  strike  such  a  blow  as  should  scatter 
the  peasants  and  dissipate  what  strength  remained  in 
them.  They  were  to  part;  and  some  shadow  of  the 
coming  separation  had  been  natural.  But  her  nerves 
as  well  as  his  were  strong,  and  the  gloom  of  parting  had 
not  yet  fallen  on  them.  The  lights  that  filled  the 
room  were  not  brighter  than  her  eyes;  the  snowy  Hnen 
that  covered  the  round  table  at  which  they  sat  was 
not  whiter  than  her  uncovered  shoulders.  He  had 
given  her  jewels,  the  spoils  of  many  an  enterprise; 
and  they  glittered  on  her  queenly  neck  and  in  her  ears, 
gleamed  through  the  thin  lace  of  her  dress,  and  on  her 
round  and  beautiful  arms.  He  called  her  his  Abbess 
and  his  nun  in  fond  derision;  and  she,  in  answering 
badinage,  ralhed  him  on  his  passion  for  the  Countess 
and  his  sldll  in  abduction.  So  cleverly  had  she  wrought 
on  him,  so  well  managed  him,  that  she  dared  even  that. 


404         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

The  room  had  been  hung  for  her  with  tapestries 
brought  from  another  part  of  the  house;  the  windows 
more  richly  curtained;  and  a  door,  long  closed,  had 
been  opened,  through  which  and  an  ante-room  the 
chambers  connected  with  M,  de  Vlaye's  apartments. 
Where  the  wedding  robes  had  lain  on  the  window-seat 
a  ribboned  lute  and  a  gay  music-book  lay  on  rich 
draperies,  and  elbowed  a  gilded  head-piece  of  Milanese 
work  surmounted  by  M.  de  Vlaye's  crest,  which  had 
been  brought  in  for  his  lady's  approval.  A  mighty  jar 
of  Provence  roses  scented  the  apartment;  and  intoxi- 
cated by  their  perfume  or  their  meaning,  she  presently 
seized  the  lute,  and  gaily,  between  jest  and  earnest, 
broke  into  the  old  Angoumois  song: — 

"  Si  je  suis  renferm^e. 
Ah,  c'est  bien  sans  raisonj 
Ma  plus  belle  journee, 
Se  pass'ra-z-en  prison. 
Mais  mon  amant  sans  peine 
Pourra  m'y  venir  voir, 
Son  coeur  sait  bien  qu'il  m'aime, 
II  viendra'-z-au  parloir! " 

And  he  answered  her — 

"  Oh,  Madame  I'Abbesse, 
Qu'on  tire  les  verrous, 
Qu'on  sorte  ma  maitresse 
Le  plus  beau  des  bijouxj 
Car  je  suis  capitaine, 
Je  suis  son  cher  amant, 
J'enfoncerai  sans  peine 
Les  portes  du  couvent  I " 

As  he  finished,  disturbed  by  some  noise,  he  turned 
his  head.     "I  told  your  wench  to  go,"  he  said,  rising. 


FORS  L' AMOUR.  405 

"I  suppose  she  took  herself  off?"  With  a  frown,  he 
strode  to  the  screen  that  masked  the  door,  and  made 
sure  by  looking  behind  it  that  they  had  no  listeners. 

She  smiled  as  she  laid  aside  the  lute.  "I  thought 
that  your  people  obeyed  at  a  word?"  she  said. 

"They  do,  or  they  suffer,",  he  answered. 

"And  is  that  to  apply  to  me?"  with  a  mocking  gri- 
mace. 

"When  we  come  to  have  two  wills,  sweet,  yes!"  he 
retorted.  "It  will  not  be  yet  awhile.  In  the  mean- 
time I  would  this  enterprise  of  yours  were  over.  I 
doubt  your  success,  though  all  looks  well. ". 

"If  I  had  been  half  as  sure  of  you  two  days  ago  as  I 
am  of  him  to-morrow!"  she  retorted. 

"Yet  you  must  not  go  too  far  with  him. " 

She  waved  her  finger-tips  across  the  table.  "So 
far,  and  no  farther,"  she  said  hghtly.  "Have  I  not 
promised  you?  For  the  rest — what  I  have  done  I  can 
do.  Am  I  not  armed?"  And  she  rose  from  her  seat, 
and  stood  before  him  in  all  the  seduction  of  her  charms. 
"Count  it  done,  my  master.  Set  Joyeuse  aside.  He 
is  captive  of  my  bow  and  spear.  The  question  is,  can 
you  deal  with  the  rest?  " 

"The  peasants?" 

"And  what  remains  of  des  Ageaux'  power?  And  the 
Countess's  levies?" 

"For  certain,  if  the  Duke  be  out  of  the  reckoning," 
he  answered.  "He  is  a  man.  Remove  him  and  des 
Ageaux — ^and  the  latter  I  have  already — and  there  is 
no  one.     Your  brothers " 

"Bah!"  She  dismissed  them  with  a  contemptuous 
gesture. 

"Just  so.     And  the  Countess's  people  have  no  leader. 


406         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

The  Vicomte  is  old.  There  is  no  one.  Detach  the 
Duke,  and  there  will  be  a  speedy  end  of  them.  And 
before  a  new  governor  can  set  to  work  to  make  head 
against  me,  many  things  may  happen,  my  girl ! " 

"Many  things  will  happen,"  she  answered  with  confi- 
dence. "If  I  can  win  one  man,  why  not  another?  If 
a  Duke,  why  not" — she  made  an  extraordinary  face  at 
him,  half-sportive,  haK-serious — "why  not  a  greater? 
Eh,  my  lord?" 

He  stared.  "No!"  he  answered,  striking  the  table 
with  sudden  violence.  "No!"  He  knew  weU  what  she 
meant  and  whom  she  meant.  "Not  that!  Even  to 
make  all  good,  not  that!"  Yet  his  eyes  glittered  as 
he  looked  at  her;  and  it  was  plain  that  his  thoughts 
travelled  far  and  fast  on  the  wings  of  her  words.  While 
she,  in  the  pride  of  her  mastery,  returned  his  look 
fondly. 

"No,  not  that — never  that!"  she  repHed  in  a  voice 
that  more  than  reassured  him.  "It  is  for  you  and  only 
for  you  that  I  do  this.  I  am  yours,  all  and  always — 
always!  But,  short  of  that,  something  may  be  done. 
And,  with  friends  at  Court,  from  Captain  of  Vlaye  to 
Governor  of  Perigord  is  but  a  step!" 

He  nodded.  "And  a  step  that  might  save  his  Maj- 
esty much  trouble,"  he  said  with  a  smile.     "  Do  that 

But  I  doubt  your  power,  my  girl." 

"I  have  done  that  already  should  persuade  you." 

"You  have  tricked  me,"  he  said,  smiUng.  "That  is 
true.     And  it  is  no  mean  thing,  I  grant." 

"More  than  that!"  she  retorted.  The  wine  she  had 
drunk  had  flushed  her  cheek  and  perhaps  loosed  her 
tongue.  "  More  than  that  I  have  done !  Who  took  the 
first  step  for  you?    Who  put  the  Lieutenant  in  your 


FORS  L' AMOUR.  407 

hands — and  my  sister?  And  so,  in  place  of  my  sister, 
the  Countess?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "Who?"  he 
rejoined.  "Why,  who  but  I  myself?  Did  I  not  take 
them  \vith  my  own.  hands — at  the  old  windmill  on  the 
hill?    What  had  you  to  do  with  that?" 

"And  who  sent  them  to  the  windmill?" 

"Why,  the  rabble  to  be  sure,  who  seized  them,  took 
them  as  far  as  the  ford." 

"And  who  set  the  rabble  on  them?"  As  she  asked 
the  question  she  rose  from  her  seat.  In  the  excitement 
of  her  triumph,  in  the  intoxication  of  her  desire  to 
please  him  she  forgot  the  despair  into  which  the  act 
which  she  boasted  had  cast  her  but  a  week  before. 
She  forgot  all  except  that  she  had  done  it  for  him 
whom  she  loved,  for  him  who  now  was  hers,  and  whose 
she  was!  "Who,"  she  repeated,  "set  the  rabble  upon 
them?" 

"You?"   he  murmured.     "Not  you?" 

"I!"  she  said,  "I!" — and  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 
"It  was  I  who  told  the  brute  beasts  that  he — des  Ageaux 
— had  your  man  in  hiding !  It  was  I  who  wrought  them 
to  the  attempt  and  Ustened  while  they  did  it!  I 
thought,  indeed,  that  it  was  your  Countess  who  was 
-with  him.  And  I  hated  her!  I  was  jealous  of  her! 
But,  Countess  or  no  Countess,  'twas  done  by  me! — ^by 
me!  And  now  do  you  think  that  there  is  anything 
I  will  not  do  for  you?  That  there  is  anything  I  cannot 
do  for  you?" 

He  was  not  shocked;  it  took  much  to  shock  the 
Captain  of  Vlaye.  But  he  was  so  much  astonished, 
he  marvelled  so  much  that  he  was  silent.  And  she, 
reading  the  astonishment  in  his  face,  and  seeing  it 


408  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

grow,  felt  a  qualm — ^now  she  had  spoken — and  lost 
colour,  and  faltered.  Had  she  been  fooHsh  to  tell  it? 
Perhaps.  Had  she  passed  some  boundary,  sacred  to 
him,  unknown  to  her?  It  must  be  so.  For  as  she  gazed, 
no  word  spoken,  there  came  into  his  face  a  change,  a 
strange  hardening.     He  rose. 

"My  lord!"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  to  her 
head,  "what  have  I  done?"  She  recoiled  a  pace, 
affrighted.     "I  did  it  for  you!" 

"Some  one  has  heard  you,"  he  answered  between  his 
teeth.  And  then  she  saw  that  he  was  looking  not  at 
her,  but  beyond  her — beyond  her.  "There  is  some  one 
behind  that  screen," 

She  faced  about,  affrighted,  and  instinctively  seized 
his  arm  and  hung  on  it,  her  eyes  on  the  screen.  Her 
attitude  as  she  Hstened,  and  her  pallor,  were  in  strange 
contrast  with  the  gay  glitter  of  the  table,  the  lights,  the 
luxury,  the  fairness  of  her  dress. 

"Yes,  listening,"  he  said  grimly.  "Some  one  has 
been  hstening.  The  worse  for  them!  For  they  will 
never  tell  what  they  have  heard!" 

And  bounding  forward  without  warning,  he  dashed 
the  screen  down  and  aside — and  recoiled.  Face  to  face 
with  him,  cowering  against  the  doorpost,  and  pale  as 
ashes,  was  the  very  man  she  had  mentioned  a  minute 
before — that  very  man  of  his  whose  hidden  presence  in 
the  camp  she  had  betrayed  to  the  malcontents.  Vlaye 
glared  at  him.     "You!"   he  cried.    ^-YouJ" 

"My  lord!" 

"And  listening!" 

"But " 

"But!  But  die,  fool!"  the  Captain  retorted  sav- 
agely.    "Die!"    And,  swift  as  speech,  the  dagger  he 


FORS  L'AMOUR.  409 

had  stealthily  drawn  gleamed  above  his  shoulder  and 
sank  in  the  poor  wretch's  throat. 

The  man's  hands  groped  in  the  air,  his  eyes  opened 
wide;  but  he  attempted  no  return-stroke.  Choked  by 
the  life-stream  that  gushed  from  his  mouth,  he  sank 
back  inert  like  a  bundle  of  clothes,  while  the  Abbess's 
low  shriek  of  terror  mingled  with  his  stifled  cr}'. 

And,  with  a  sterner  sound,  another  sound.  For  as 
the  man  collapsed,  and  fell  in  on  hunself,  a  figure 
hitherto  hidden  in  the  doorway  sprang  over  his  falling 
body,  a  long  blade  flashed  in  the  candle-light,  and  the 
Captain  of  Vlaye  staggered  back,  one  hand  pressed  to 
his  breast.  He  made  a  futile  attempt  to  ward  with  his 
poniard,  but  it  fell  from  his  grasp.  And  the  pitiless 
steel  found  his  heart  again.  Silent,  grim,  with  un- 
quenchable hate  in  his  eyes,  he  reeled  against  the  table. 
And  then  from  the  table,  dragging  with  him  all — silver 
and  glass  and  fruit — in  one  common  crash,  he  roiled 
to  the  floor — dying. 

Ay,  in  five  seconds,  dead!  And  she  saw  it  with  her 
eyes!  Saw  it!  And  frozen,  stiff,  clinging  to  the  bare 
edge  of  the  table,  she  stood  looking  at  him,  her  brain 
numbed  by  the  horror,  by  the  suddenness,  the  hope- 
lessness of  the  catastrophe.  In  a  twinkling,  in  a  time 
measured  by  seconds,  it  was  done.  The  olives  that 
fell  from  the  dish  had  not  ceased  to  roll,  the  wine  still 
crept  upon  the  floor,  the  man  who  had  struck  the  blow 
still  panted,  his  point  delivered — but  he  was  dead  whom 
she  had  loved.     Dead! 


CHAPTER  XXV, 


HIS    LAST   RIDE. 


The  man  who  had  struck  the  blow,  and  whose  ej^es 
still  sparkled  with  fury,  turned  them  upon  her.  He 
took  note  of  her  stupor,  frowned,  and  with  a  swift, 
cruel  glance  searched  the  room.  The  lights  were  in 
sconces  on  the  walls,  and  had  not  suffered.  The  rest 
was  wreck — a  splendid  wreck,  mingled  terror  and  lux- 
ury, with  the  woman's  Medusa-like  face  gazing  on  it. 
The  Duke — for  he  it  was — still  breathing  quickly,  still 
with  malevolence  in  his  eyes,  listened  and  looked;  but 
tiie  alarm  had  not  been  taken.  The  lilt  of  a  song  and 
faint  distant  laughter,  borne  on  the  night  air,  alone 
broke  the  night  silence.  He  passed  to  a  window,  and 
putting  aside  a  curtain,  peered  into  the  darkness  of 
the  garden.  Then  he  went  to  the  door,  and  listened. 
Still  all  was  quiet  without  and  within.  But  to  the 
scene  in  the  room  his  gliding  figure,  his  bent,  listening 
head  gave  the  last  touch  of  tragedy. 

Presently — ^before,  it  would  appear,  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  how  to  act — he  saw  a  change  come  over  the 
woman.  Her  breatliing,  which  had  been  no  more  ap- 
parent for  a  time  than  the  breath  of  the  dead  at  her 
feet,  became  evident,  her  figure  relaxed.  Her  attitude 
lost  its  stoniness ;  yet  she  did  not  stir  to  the  eye.     Only 

410 


HIS  LAST  RIDE.  411 

her  eyes  moved;  and  then  at  last  her  foot.  Stealthily 
her  foot — the  man  listening  at  the  door  marked  it — slid 
from  her  robe,  and  unshod  in  its  thin  silken  stocking — 
so  thin  of  web  that  the  skin  showed  through  it — covered 
the  poniard,  still  wet  with  blood,  that  had  fallen  from 
her  husband's  hand.  Slowly  she  drew  it  nearer  and 
nearer  to  her. 

He  at  the  door  made  as  if  he  did  not  heed.  But 
when  she  had  drawn  the  weapon  within  reach,  and 
furtive  and  silent  as  a  cat,  stooped  to  grasp  it,  he  was 
before  her — so  far  before  her,  at  least,  that,  though 
she  gained  it,  he  clutched  her  wrist  as  she  rose.  "No, 
madam!"  he  cried  fiercely.  "No!  Enough!"  And 
he  tried  to  force  it  from  her  hand. 

No  words  came  from  her  lips,  but  an  animal  cry  of 
unutterable  fury.  She  seized  on  his  wrist  with  her 
left  hand — she  tried  to  seize  it  with  her  teeth;  she 
fought  to  free  herself,  clinging  to  the  knife  and  wres- 
tling with  him  in  the  midst  of  the  trampled  fruit,  the 
shivered  glass,  the  mingled  wine  and  blood  that  made 
the  floor  slippery. 

"Let  it  fall!"  he  repeated,  hard  put  to  it  and  pant- 
ing. "Enough,  I  say,  enough!"  If  he  had  loved  her 
once  he  showed  scant  tenderness  now. 

And  she — ^her  lips  writhed,  her  hair  uncoiled  and 
fell  about  her.  He  began  to  wish  that  he  had  not 
dropped  his  sword  when  he  sprang  upon  her.  For 
he  was  still  weak;  and  if  she  persevered  she  was  more 
than  a  match  for  him.  In  her  normal  condition  she 
had  been  more  than  a  match  for  him;  but  the  shock 
had  left  its  secret  sap.  Suddenly,  without  cry  or 
warning,  her  grasp  relaxed,  her  head  fell  back,  and 
she  sank — all  her  length,  but  sideways — amid  the  rum. 


412         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

He  nursed  his  wrist  a  moment,  looking  askance  at 
iier,  and  thinking  deeply  and  darkly.  Assured  at 
length  that  the  swoon  was  no  feint  to  take  him  un- 
awares, he  went  to  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered, 
passed  through  the  empty  ante-room,  and  thence  into 
the  Captain  of  Vlaye's  apartments.  In  the  passage 
outside  the  farther  door  of  these  a  sleepy  valet  was  on 
guard.  He  was  not  surprised  by  the  Duke's  appear- 
ance, for  half  an  hour  before — only  half  an  hour! — he 
had  allowed  him  and  his  guide  to  enter. 

"M.  de  Vlaye  wishes  to  see  the  Captain  of  the  gate," 
the  Duke  said  curtly.  "Bid  him  come,  and  quickly." 
And  to  show  that  he  looked  for  no  answer  he  turned 
his  back  on  the  man,  and,  without  looking  behind  him, 
passed  through  the  rooms  again  to  the  one  he  had 
left. 

Here  he  did  a  strange  thing.  On  a  side  table  which 
had  escaped  the  general  disaster  stood  some  dishes 
removed  from  the  chief  table,  a  plate  or  two,  a  bread 
treftcher,  and  a  silver  decanter  of  wine.  After  a 
moment's  thought  he  drew  a  chair  to  this  table,  laid 
his  sword  on  it  beside  the  dishes,  and,  helping  himself 
to  food,  began  to  eat  and  drink,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
floor.  After  the  lapse  of  two  or  three  minutes,  during 
which  he  more  than  once  scanned  the  room  with  a 
strange  and  inexplicable  satisfaction,  a  knock  was 
heard  at  the  door. 

"Enter!"  said  the  Duke,  his  mouth  half-full. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  grizzled  man  with  a  square- 
cut  beard  stepped  in;  He  wore  a  breastpiece  over  a 
leather  coat,  and  held  his  steel  cap  in  his  hand. 

"Shut  the  door!"  the  Duke  said  sharply. 

The  man  did  so  mechanically,  and  turned  again,  and 


HIS  LAST  RIDE.  413 

— ^his  mouth  opened.  After  a  few  seconds  of  silence 
"  Mon  Dieu ! "  he  whispered.     "  Mon  Dieu ! ' ' 

"He  is  quite  dead,"  the  Duke  said,  raising  his  glass  to 
his  lips.  "But  you  had  better  satisfy  yourself.  When 
you  have  done  so,  listen  to  me." 

Had  the  Duke  been  in  any  other  attitude  it  is  prob- 
able that  the  man  had  turned  in  a  panic,  flung  the  door 
wide,  and  yelled  for  help.  But,  seeing  a  stranger 
calmly  eating  and  drinking  and  addressing  him  with 
a  morsel  on  the  point  of  his  knife,  the  man  stared 
helplessly,  and  then  did  mechanically  as  he  was  told — 
stooped,  listened,  felt  for  the  life  that  had  for  ever 
departed.  When  he  rose  again  "Now,  listen  to  me," 
said  the  other.  "  I  am  the  Duke  of  Joyeuse — you 
know  my  name?  You  know  me?  Yes,  I  did  it.  That 
is  not  your  affair — but  I  did  it.  Your  affair  is  with 
the  thing  we  have  next  to  do.     No — she  is  not  dead." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  the  man  whispered.  Old  war-dog  as 
he  was,  his  cheeks  were  sallow,  his  hand  trembled.  A 
hundred  dead,  in  the  open,  on  the  rampart,  under  God's 
sky,  had  not  scared  him  as  this  lighted  room  with  its 
medley  of  horror  and  wealth,  its  curtained  wdndows 
and  its  suffocating  tapestry,  scared  him. 

"Your  affair,"  the  Duke  repeated,  "is  with  what  is 
to  follow."  He  raised  his  glass,  and  held  it  between 
his  eye  and  the  light.  "Do  you  talce  my  side  or  his? 
He  is  dead — you  see  him.  I  am  alive — you  know  me. 
Now  hear  my  terms.  But  first,  my  man,  what  do  you 
number?" 

The  man  made  an  effort,  vain  for  the  most  part,  to 
collect  himself.  But  he  managed  to  whisper,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  that  they  mustered  four  hundred 
and  thirty,  all  told, 


414  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"Fighting-men?" 

The  man  moved  his  Hps  without  sound,  but  the  other 
understood  that  he  assented. 

"Very  well,"  the  Duke  said.  "All  that  is  here  I  give 
you.  Understand,  all.  Divide,  sack,  spoil;  make  your 
bundles.  He  is  dead,"  with  a  glance  at  Vlaye's  body, 
"he'll  not  say  you  nay.  And  a  free  pardon  for  all; 
r.nd  for  as  many  as  please — my  service.  All  that  I 
give,  on  condition  that  you  open  your  gates  to  me  and 
render  the  place  three  hours  after  sunrise  to-morrow." 

The  man  gaped.  The  position  was  new,  but  he 
began  to  see  his  way.  "I  can  do  nothing  by  myself,", 
he  muttered. 

"You  can  have  first  search,"  Joyeuse  retorted  bru- 
tally. "There  he  lies,  and  his  buttons  are  jewelled. 
And  ten  gold  crowns  I  will  give  you  for  yourself  when 
the  place  is  mine.  You  know  me,  and  I  keep  my  word. 
I  told  your  friend  there,  who  got  me  entrance" — he 
pointed  to  the  man  Vlaye  had  stabbed — "that  if  his 
master  laid  a  finger  on  him  I  would  kill  his  master  with 
these  hands.     I  did  it.     And  there's  an  end." 

The  grizzled  man's  face  was  changed.  It  had  giown 
cunning.  His  eyes  shone  with  cupidity.  His  cheek- 
bones were  flushed.  "And  if  they  will  not  come  into 
your  terms,  my  lord?"  he  asked,  his  head  on  one  side, 
nis  fingers  in  his  beard,  "  what  must  I  say  you  will  do?  " 

"Hang  while  rope  lasts,"  the  Duke  answered.  "But, 
name  of  God,  man!" — staring — "beyond  the  spoils  of 
the  place  what  do  you  want?  He  is  dead,  you  have  no 
leader.  What  matter  is  it  of  yours  or  of  theirs  who 
leads?" 

The  old  soldier  nodded.  "That  is  true/!  he  said: 
"we  follow  our  wages.'! 


HIS  LAST  RIDE.  415 

"One  thing  more — nay,  three  things,"  Joyeuse  con- 
tinued, pushing  his  cup  and  plate  aside  and  rising  to 
his  feet.  "The  lady  there — I  trust  her  to  you.  Lock 
her  up  where  she  will  be  safe,  and  at  daybreak  see 
that  she  is  sent  to  the  convent.  M.  des  Ageaux,  whom 
you  have  below — not  a  hair  of  his  head  must  be  injured. 
Lastly,  you  must  do  no  harm  in  the  town." 

"I  will  remember,  my  lord,  and  tell  them.". 

"And  now  see  me  through  the  gates." 

The  man  grinned  cunningly;  but  as  one  who  wished 
to  prove  his  astuteness,  not  as  one  who  intended  to 
refuse.  "That  is  number  four,  my  lord,"  he  said,  "and 
the  chief  est  of  all." 

"Not  so,"  the  Duke  answered.  "It  was  on  that  con- 
dition I  spared  your  Hfe,  fool,  when  you  came  in.". 

"Then  you  knew " 

"I  knew  that  his  buttons  were  jewelled." 

"My  lord,"  the  man  said  with  admiration,  "I  vow 
you'd  face  the  devil." 

"You  will  do  that  whether  you  will  or  no,"  the  Duke 
replied  drily,  "some  day.  But  that  reminds  me."  He 
turned  from  his  companion.  He  looked  on  the  blood- 
shed about  him,  and  gradually  his  face  showed  the  first 
signs  of  compunction  that  had  escaped  him.  Something 
of  disgust,  almost  of  distress,  appeared  in  his  manner. 
He  glanced  from  one  prostrate  form  to  another  as  if  he 
so*arce  knew  what  to  do  and  presently  he  crossed  himself. 
"Lift  her  to  the  couch  there,"  he  said.  And  when  it 
w^as  done,  "My  friend,"  he  continued,  in  a  lower  tone, 
"wait  wdthout  the  door  one  minute.  But  do  not  go 
beyond  call," 

The  old  soldier  raised  his  eyebrows,  but  he,  thoroughly 
won  over,  obeyed.    Once  outside,  however,  he  pondered 


416         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

cunningly.  Why  had  he  been  sent  out?  And  thoughts 
of  his  jewelled  buttons  overcame  him.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation — for  Joyeuse  had  put  fear  into  him — he 
dropped  softly  to  his  knee  and  set  his  eye  to  a  crack  in 
the  door. 

M.  de  Joyeuse  was  kneehng  between  the  dead,  his 
palms  joined  before  his  breast,  his  rosary  between  them. 
The  lights  of  the  feast,  that  shone  ghastly  on  the  grim 
faces  and  on  the  blood-pool  about  them,  shone  also  on 
his  uphfted  face,  from  which  the  last  trace  of  the  tre^ 
mendous  rages  to  which  he  was  prone  had  fled,  leaving 
it  pale  indeed  and  worn — for  the  marks  of  his  illness 
were  still  upon  it — but  calm  and  sublime.  His  eyes 
were  upward  bent.  Those  eyes  that  a  few  minutes 
earHer  had  burned  with  a  hatred  almost  sub-human 
now  shone  with  a  light  soft  and  ecstatic,  such  as  shines 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  see  visions  and  hear  voices. 
His  hps  moved  without  sound.  The  beads  dropped 
one  by  one  through  his  fingers. 

The  hewers  of  wood  and  feeders  of  oxen  wlio  horded 
together  in  the  town  under  the  castle  walls  wero  timidly 
aware  of  the  festivities  above  their  heads.  The  ;  ounds 
of  brawling  and  dancing,  of  the  tambour  and  glee,  de- 
scended to  them  and  kept  them  waiting  far  into  the 
night.  On  occasions,  rare,  it  is  true,  the  war-lords  above 
had  broken  loose  from  their  bonds,  and,  mad  with 
drink  and  frenzied  with  excitement,  had  harried  their 
own  town.  Once,  to  teach  a  lesson,  the  thing  had 
been  done — ^but  more  completely  and  cruelly — by 
Vlaye's  express  order.  The  memory  of  the.'^e  rrcnsions 
remained,   burned   shamefully    into     the    tcv  '^-'s 

mind;    and  many  a  cotter  looked  up  thi^   ;.    ...,   ui 


HIS  LAST  RIDE.  417 

trembling  from  his  humble  window,  many  a  woman 
with  her  hood  about  her  head  stood  in  the  alley  whis- 
pering to  her  neighbour  and  quaked  as  she  listened. 
Something  beyond  the  ordinary  was  passing  above,  in 
the  stronghold  that  at  once  protected  and  plundered 
them;  something  that  a  sad  experience  told  them 
boded  no  good.  Two  or  three  young  women  of  the 
better  class  went  so  far  as  to  seek  a  sanctuary  in  Father 
Benet's  chapel;  while  their  fathers  hid  their  little 
hoards,  and  their  mothers  took  heed  to  quench  the 
fires,  and  some  threw  water  on  the  thatch — sad  pre- 
cautions which  necessity  had  made  second  nature  in 
many  a  hamlet  and  many  a  market-town  of  France. 

Had  they  known,  these  poor  folk  who  paid  for  all, 
that  their  lord  lay  dead  in  the  Ughted  room  above,  had 
they  guessed  that  the  hand  which  had  held  those  tur- 
bulent troopers  in  order  was  nerveless  at  last,  never 
again  to  instil  fear  or  strike  a  blow,  not  even  these  pre- 
cautions had  contented  them.  They  would  have  risen 
and  fled,  and  in  the  marshes  by  the  river  or  in  remote 
meadows  would  have  hidden  themselves  from  the  first 
violence  of  the  troopers'  outbreak.  But  they  did  not 
know,  and  they  remained.  And  though  those  who  were 
most  fearful  or  least  sleepy,  women  or  men,  noted  that 
the  lights  above  burned  all  night  and  that  the  tumult, 
albeit  its  note  changed,  held  till  dawn,  they  slept  or 
kept  vigil  in  security.  The  Duke's  command  availed. 
And  no  man,  until  the  day  was  broad,  left  the  castle. 

Then  the  gates  were  opened,  and  a  procession  number- 
ing four  score  troopers — those  who  had  the  most  to 
fear  from  justice  or  the  least  bent  towards  honest 
service — issued  from  them,  and  rode  two  abreast  down 
t;he  hill  and  through  the  to\^^^,    They  were  in  strange 


418         THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

guise.  Every  man  had  a  great  bundle  on  his  crupper, 
and  some  a  woman;  and  every  man  rode  gorgeous  in 
silk  or  Genoa,  or  rich  furs,  with  feathers  and  such  like 
gewgaws.  One  had  a  headpiece  damascened  beyond 
price  swinging  at  his  shoulders,  another  flaunted  trap- 
pings of  silver,  a  third  had  a  jewelled  hilt,  a  fourth 
a  bunch  of  clinking  cups  or  a  swollen  belt.  Behind 
them  came  a  dczen  spare  horses,  roped  head  and 
tail  and  high  laden  with  casks  and  skins  of  wine; 
while  hunting-dogs  ran  at  the  stirrups,  and  two  or 
three  monkeys  and  thrice  as  many  chained  hawks 
balanced  themselves  on  the  swaying  casks,  Tlie  men 
rode  jauntily,  with  high  looks  and  defiant  voices,  jest- 
ing and  singing  as  they  passed;  and  now  and  again  a 
one  aimed  a  blow  at  a  clown,  or,  with  rude  laughter, 
flimg  a  handful  of  coppers  to  the  townsfolk,  who  shrank 
into  their  doorways  to  see  them  pass.  But  no  man 
vouchsafed  a  word  of  explanation;  only  the  last  rider 
as  he  passed  under  the  arch  of  the  town  gate  turned, 
and,  with  his  hands  joined,  flung  behind  him  a  derisive 
gesture  of  farewell. 

The  townsfolk  wondered,  for  the  men  were  rich  laden. 
Many  a  one  carried  a  year's  pay  on  his  shoulders;  and 
what  they  hid  in  their  bundles  inight  amount  to  many 
times  as  much.  Moreover,  they  swaggered  as  men  who 
mind  no  master.  What  then  had  happened?  Nay, 
what  was  still  happening?  For  it  was  plain  that  some- 
thing was  amiss  above.  From  the  castle  proceeded  a 
strange  and  continuous  hum;  a  dull  noise,  as  of  bees 
swarming;  a  murmur  compound  of  many  sounds,  and 
full  of  menace. 

But  no  man  who  was  not  in  the  secret  guessed  the 
tmth  or  even  came  near  it.     And  the  sun  had  travelled 


HIS  LAST  RIDE.  419 

far  and  the  lads  had  driven  the  cows  to  pasture  before 
the  green  valley  of  the  Dronne,  that  had  lain  so  long 
under  the  spell  of  fear,  awoke  to  find  its  burden  i^one 
and  to  learn  that  a  better  time,  bringing  law,  order,  and 
justice,  was  at  hand.  About  seven  a  body  of  horse- 
men were  seen  crossing  the  narrow  plain  which  divided 
the  place  from  the  northern  heights;  and  as  these 
approached  the  bridge  a  lad,  one  of  those  who  had 
first  espied  them,  was  sent  to  carry  the  alarm  to  the 
castle.  The  townsfollc  looked  to  see  a  rush  of  armed 
men  to  the  outer  gate;  or,  if  not  that,  something  akin. 
But  nothing  of  the  kind  followed,  and  while  they  stood 
gaping,  uncertain  whether  to  stand  their  ground  or 
flee  to  hiding,  the  advancing  horsemen,  who  numbered 
about  two  hundred,  marched  across  the  bridge  with 
every  sign  of  confidence. 

The  Duke  was  not  among  them.  Fatigue  and  the 
weakness  caused  by  his  wound  had  stood  in  the  way 
of  his  return,  and  at  this  hour  he  lay  in  utter  collapse 
in  his  quarters  in  the  peasants'  camp.  His  place  was 
occupied  by  the  Bat,  who  rode  in  the  van  with  Charles 
de  Villeneuve  on  his  right  and  Roger  on  his  left.  The 
young  men's  minds  were  clouded  by  thoughts  of  their 
sister  and  her  plight;  but,  in  spite  of  this,  it  was  a 
day  of  pride  to  them,  a  day  of  triumph  and  revenge — 
and  they  rode  in  that  spirit.  The  Bat,  to  whom  Hecub'i 
was  naught — it  was  long  since  a  woman  had  troubled 
his  peace — wore  none  the  less  a  grave  face.  For  time 
had  pressed,  the  Duke's  explanation  had  been  brief 
though  fervid,  and  the  men  had  saddled  and  started 
within  an  hour  of  his  return.  Consequently  all  might 
be  well,  or  it  might  be  ill.  The  Captain  of  Vlaye's 
troops  might  surrender  the  place  without  a  blow,  or 


420  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

they  might  not.  For  his  part,  the  Bat  would  not  have 
risked  his  purse  on  their  promise. 

But  to  risk  his  life  and  his  men  was  in  the  way  of  war. 
And  he  moved  steadily  up  the  street,  and  gave  no  sign 
of  doubt.  Nevertheless  it  was  his  ear  that,  as  they  de- 
bouched into  the  market-place,  caught  the  tread  of  a 
galloping  horse  on  the  flat  beyond  the  river ;  and  it  was 
his  hand  that  halted  the  men — apparently  that  the 
stragglers  might  move  up  and  take  their  places. 

A  minute  or  two  later  tlie  galloping  horse  pounded 
under  the  gateway  and  clattered  recklessly  up  the  paved 
street.  The  sound  of  those  hurrying  hoofs  told  of  news; 
and  the  men  turned  in  their  saddles  and  looked  to 
learn  who  followed.  The  rider  appeared  in  the  open. 
It  was  Bonne  de  Villeneuve. 

Charles  wheeled  his  horse,  and  rode  down  the  column 
to  meet  his  sister.  "Yon  have  not  come  alone?''  he 
said  in  astonishment,  mingled  with  anger. 

She  nodded,  breathing  quickly;  and,  supporting  her- 
self by  one  hand  on  the  sweating  horse,  she  pulled  up. 
She  was  unable  to  speak  for  a  moment.  Then  "I  must 
go  first  1"  she  gasped.     "I  must  go  first." 

"But " 

"I  must!  I  must!"  she  replied.  Her  distress  was 
painful. 

Her  brother  frowned.  The  Bat  eyed  her,  in  doubt 
and  perplexity.  But  Roger  spoke.  "Let  her  go,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice.     "I  understard.     She  is  right." 

And  though  no  one  else  understood,  the  Bat  let  her 
pass  the  head  of  the  file  of  horsemen  and  ride  alone  up 
the  way  that  led  to  the  castle.  The  men,  with  wonder- 
ing faces,  watched  her  figure  and  her  horse  until  the 
turn  in  the  road  hid  her^  and  watched  again  until  she 


HIS  LAST  RIDE.  421 

was  seen  crossing  the  bridge  which  spanned  the  road. 
Immediately  she  vanished  without  let  or  hindrance. 

"The  gates  are  open,"  some  one  muttered  in  a  tone 
of  relief.  And  the  men's  faces  lost  their  gravity.  They 
fell  into  postures  of  ease,  and  began  to  talk  and  exchange 
jests.  Some  gazed  up  at  the  castle  windows  or  at  that 
rampart  walk,  high  above  the  town,  which  had  been 
the  Captain  of  Vlaye's  favourite  lounge  of  evenings. 
Only  the  foremost  ranks,  who  could  see  the  road  before 
them  and  the  bridge  that  crossed  it,  continued  to  look 
to  the  front  with  curiosity. 

It  was  one  of  these  whose  exclamation  presently 
stilled  all  tongues  and  recalled  all  thoughts  to  the 
work  in  hand.  An  instant  later  the  Bat's  face  turned 
a  dull  red  colour.  Roger  laughed  nervously.  Some 
of  the  men  swayed,  and  seemed  inclined  to  cheer; 
others  raised  their  hands,  but  thought  better  of  it. 
The  rear  ranks  rose  in  their  stirrups.  A  moment  and 
all  could  see  des  Ageaux  coming  down  the  road  on 
foot.  The  Bat  and  the  two  Villeneuves  went  forward 
to  meet  him. 

He  nodded  to  them  without  speaking.  Then,  "Why 
are  you  waiting?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice.  "Is  it 
not  all  arranged?" 

"But  mademoiselle,"  the  Bat  answered,  staring. 
"Have  you  not  seen  her?" 

"No." 

"But  I  thought — she  asked  us  to  wait.'* 

The  Lieutenant  of  P^rigord  looked  along  the  line  of 
horsemen,  whose  bronzed  faces  and  smiling  eyes — all 
striving  at  once  to  catch  his — gave  him  welcome.  "I 
don't  understand,"  he  said.  "I  know  nothing  of 
this.'' 


422  THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE. 

"I  do,"  Roger  muttered.     "I  think  Charles  and  I 

should  go  forward,  and " 

He  did  not  continue.  The  Bat,  by  a  movement 
which  silenced  him,  called  his  attention  to  the  bridge. 
On  it  a  number  of  persons  had  that  moment  appeared, 
issuing  from  tlie  castle  gates,  and  directing  their  course 
to  the  tilt-yard  crest.  Their  progress  was  slow,  yet 
the  gazers  below  could  not,  from  the  place  where  they 
stood,  discern  why;  or  precisely  who  they  were.  But 
presently,  after  an  interval  of  suspense  and  waiting, 
the  httle  company  reappeared  in  the  road  below  and 
began  to  descend  the  slope  towards  them.  Tlien  here 
and  there  a  man  caught  his  breath,  and,  as  by  one 
consent,  all  edged  their  horses  to  the  side.  M.  des 
Ageaux  bared  his  head,  and  the  troopers,  from  front 
to  rear,  followed  his  example. 

It  was  a  brief  and  mournful  procession.  In  the  van, 
riding  where  he  had  ridden  so  often,  to  foray  and 
skirmish,  the  Captain  of  Vlaye  rode  his  last  ride,  with 
a  man  at  either  rein  and  either  stirrup,  his  war-cloak 
about  him,  and  his  steel  headpiece  nodding  above  his 
clay-cold  face.  His  lance,  with  its  drooping  pennon, 
rose  upright  from  his  stirrup,  and  the  faithful  four 
who  brought  him  forth  had  so  fixed  it  that  he  seemed 
to  grasp  its  shaft  rather  than  to  be  supported  by  it. 
The  sun  twinkled  on  his  steel,  the  light  breeze  caught 
and  lifted  the  ends  of  liis  sash.  As  the  old  war-horse 
paced  slowly  and  quietly  along,  conscious  of  its  burden 
and  of  death,  it  was  hard  to  say  at  a  glance  that  the 
Lord  of  all  the  Valley  was  not  passing  forth  as  of  old 
to  battle;  that,  instead,  he  was  moving  to  his  last 
rest  in  the  cloister  which  rose  among  the  trees  a  half- 
league  from  the  walls. 


HIS  LAST  RIDE.  423 

A  few  paces  behind  him,  in  a  mule-litter,  was  borne  a 
woman  swathed  in  black  cloth  from  head  to  foot,  so 
that  not  so  much  as  her  eyes  appeared.  On  one  side  of 
the  litter  walked  Bonne,  her  chin  on  her  breast,  and  her 
hand  resting  on  the  litter's  edge.  On  the  other  side 
walked  a  frightened  waiting-woman. 

]M.  de  Vlaye  passed,  the  litter  passed,  all  passed. 
But  until  the  procession  disappeared  in  the  narrow 
street  that  led  to  the  town  gate  no  man  covered  him- 
self or  moved.  Then,  at  a  low  word  of  command, 
the  hne  of  troopers  rode  on  with  a  sudden  m^erry  jingle 
of  bits  and  spurs,  and,  winding  up  the  little  gorge 
between  the  crests,  marched  over  the  bridge  and 
through  the  open  gates. 

The  Lieutenant's  first  act  was  to  go  to  a  low  ram- 
part on  the  west  side  of  the  courtyard,  whence  it  was 
possible  to  trace  with  the  eye  the  road  to  the  Abbey. 
Bonne  had  not  looked  at  him  as  she  passed,  nor  so 
much  as  raised  her  eyes.  But  he  knew  by  some  subtle 
sense  that  she  had  been  aware  of  his  presence  and 
that  he  had  her  promise  that  she  would  return. 

Doubtless  he  looked  forward  to  the  moment  of  meet- 
ing; doubtless  he  looked  forward  to  other  things.  But 
it  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  as  soon  as  he 
had  assured  himself  of  her  safe  passage  he  turned 
without  more  ado  to  the  work  of  restoring  order,  of 
raising  the  King's  standard,  and  enforcing  the  King's 
peace. 

THE   END. 


IN  KINGS'  BYWAYS 

By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR  OF    '  A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  '■  COUNT  HANNIBAL,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  a  Frontispiece  by  George  Varlan.     Crown  8vo,  cloth, 
ornamental,  81 'SO 


"  Capital  short  stories  of  France,  written  in  Mr.  Weyman's  well-known 
vein." — Outlook,  New  York. 

''  .  .  .  The  tales  and  episodes  are  all  so  good  that  it  is  hardly  fair  to 
Mr.  Weyman  to  say  some  are  better  than  others." — Times,  Boston. 

"...  About  this  author's  stories  there  is  a  dash,  and  a  nerve,  and  a 
swing,  and  a  'go'  that  no  other  surpasses  though  he  has  many  imitators.  .  .  . 
The  opening  story,  '  Flore,"  is  marvelously  intense  in  plot,  and  its  execution, 
with  a  play  of  action  and  incident  and  thrilling  situation  that  is  incessant.  Every 
story  in  the  book,  for  that  matter,  is  a  masterpiece." — Commercial,  Buffalo. 

"  The  twelve  stories  .  ,  .  are  full  of  that  romantic  charm  which  he  has 
communicated  to  his  more  elaborate  works  of  historical  fiction.  .  .  .  His 
historical  portraits  are  never  overdone,  they  are  always  sketched  with  equal 
restraint  and  precision.     The  book  is  abundantly  entertaming. ' 

— New  York  Tribune. 

"  Stanley  Weyman  was  the  leader  in  the  general  revival  of  the  historical  and 
romantic  novel,  and  he  is  still  one  of  the  best  writers  in  this  field.  .  .  .  '  In 
Kings'  Byways'  are  stories  of  different  periods,  but  Mr.  Weyman  is  always  at 
his  best  when  dealing  with  Henry  of  Navarre  or  the  generation  just  before.  In 
his  hands  Old  France  lives  again,  picturesque  and  absorbing.  All  these  stories 
.  .  .  are  finished,  artistic  and  gracefully  told.  The  novelette  '  For  the 
Cause'  is  probably  the  most  powerful  thing  Mr.  Weyman  has  ever  written." 

— New  York  World. 

"...  Mr.  Weyman's  latest  book,  '  In  Kings'  Byways,'  is  inevitably  of 
the  class  that  entertains.  And  that  it  does  entertain  is  sufficient  justification  for 
its  writing."— Transcript,  Boston. 

"It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  these  tales  are  worth  the  reading.  They  re- 
late with  a  quality  that  cannot  be  denied  the  highest  praise,  tales  of  love  and 
war  and  court  and  highway  Not  one  of  them  is  dull,  not  one  to  be  passed  over 
as  not  worthy  of  attention.  All  are  dramatic,  all  good  in  form,  and  if  one  must 
be  selected  from  out  the  rest  as  best,  'The  House  on  the  Wall'  is  chosen." 

— Courier-Journal,  Louisville,  Ky. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


COUNT  HANNIBAL 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE 

By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR   OF    "A   GENTLEMAN   OF   FRANCE,"    "UNDER  THE   RED   ROBE, 
"THE  CASTLE   INN,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


With  Frontispiece.    Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.50 

"  It  is  very  seldom  that  one  runs  across  a  historical  novel  the  plot  of  which  is 
so  ably  sustained,  the  characters  so  strongly  drawn,  the  local  color  or  atmosphere 
so  satisfactory.  ..."  Count  Hannibal '  is  the  strongest  and  most  interest- 
ing novel  as  yet  written  by  this  popular  author." — Boston  Times. 

"  Stanley  J.  Weyman  has  had  hundreds  of  imitators  since  he  wrote  'A  Gen- 
tleman of  France,'  but  no  man  has  yet  surpassed  him.  I  know  of  no  book  in 
the  whole  list  of  popular  favorites  that  holds  one's  interest  more  intensely  or 
mote  continuously  than  '  Count  Hannibal '  does.  And  what  an  insistent,  throat- 
gripping  interest  it  is ! 

What  is  the  use  of  hoping  for  a  decadence  of  the  craze  for  historical 
romances  so  long  as  the  public  is  fed  on  books  like  this  ?  Such  a  story  has  zest 
for  the  most  jaded  palate  ;  nay,  it  can  hold  the  interest  even  of  a  book  reviewer. 
From  the  first  page  to  the  last  there  is  not  a  moment  when  one's  desire  to  finish 
the  book  weakens.  Along  with  the  ordinary  interest  of  curiosity  there  goes  that 
of  a  delightful  and  unique  love  story  involving  no  little  skill  in  character  deline- 
ation."— Record- Herald,  Chicago. 

"A  spirited,  tersely  interesting  and  most  vivid  story  of  scenes  and  incidents 
and  portrayals  of  various  characters  that  lived  and  fought  and  bled  in  the  lurid 
days  that  saw  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  .  .  .  This  is  Mr.  Weyman's 
most  graphic  and  realistic  novel." — Picayune,  New  Orleans. 

"Mr.  Weyman  has  surpassed  himself  in  '  Count  Hannibal.'  The  scene  of 
the  story  is  laid  chiefly  in  Paris,  at  the  time  of  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew. .  .  .  We  are  made  to  grasp  the  soul  of  Count  Hannibal  and  are  tacitly 
asked  to  let  its  envelope  take  care  of  itself.  .  .  .  Never  has  Mr.  V/eyman 
achieved,  in  fact,  a  higher  degree  of  verisimilitude.  Count  Hannibal  may  leave 
us  breathless  with  his  despotic  methods,  but  he  is  not  abnormal  ;  he  is  one  of  the 
Frenchmen  who  shared  the  temper  which  made  the  St.  Bartholomew,  and  he  is  in- 
tensely human  too  .  .  .  how  the  tangle  of  events  in  which  he  and  half  a 
dozen  others  are  involved  is  straightened  out  we  refrain  from  disclosing.  The 
reader  who  once  takes  up  this  book  will  want  to  find  all  this  out  for  himself" 

—New  York  Tribune. 

"A  story  in  Mr.  Weyman's  best  vein,  with  the  crimson  horror  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew as  an  historical  setting.  '  Count  Hannibal '  is  a  worthy  companion  of 
'  A  Gentleman  of  France  '  and  '  The  Red  Cockade,'  and  Mr.  Weyman's  hand  is 
as  cunning  as  ever  in  fashioning  a  romance  which  will  send  a  thrill  through  the 
most  jaded  reader  and  keep  even  a  reviewer  from  his  bed. " 

— Bookman,  London. 

"  The  book  is  rapid,  is  absorbing,  and  the  hero  is  a  distinctly  interesting 
character  in  himself,  apart  from  his  deeds  of  daring."— Athknjeum. 

"  Mr.  Stanley  Weyman's  '  Count  Hannibal "  is  fully  worthy  of  his  great  repu- 
tation—the style  is  brilliant,  easy  and  clear ;  the  invention  of  subject  and  the 
turns  of  fortune  in  the  story  surprising  ;  above  all,  the  subtle  painting  of  a  man 
and  a  woman's  heart  is  done  with  inexhaustible  knowledge.  "—Guardian. 

"  A  picturesque  and  vigorous  romance.  The  narrative  will  be  followed  witb 
breathless  interest." — Times,  London. 


LONGMANS,  GEEEN,  &  00.,  91-93  PIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  TOEB 


SOPHIA 


By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  F'iANCE,"  "UNDER  Tf  «i  RED  ROBE,"  ETC. 


With  12  Illustrations  by  C.  Hammond.    Crown  8vo,  cloth, 
ornamental,  $1.50. 


"  Mf.  Weyman's  new  romance  illustrates  the  types  and  manners  of  fashion- 
able London  society  in  the  year  1742.  In  everything  that  means  the  revival  of 
an  historical  atmosphere  it  is  skilful,  and,  on  the  whole,  just.  The  characters 
also  are  well  realized.  .  ,  .  '  Sophia  '  is  a  decidedly  intereisting  novel.  .  .  . 
The  tale  moves  swiftly,  hurrying  on  from  the  town  to  the  hea,th,  from  hatred  to 
love,  from  imprisonment  on  bread  and  water  to  diamonds  .  .  .  and  a  dozen 
oLherthings.  Sophia,  the  heroine,  is  a  bundle  of  girlish  foolishness  and  charms. 
•Sophia,'  the  book,  is  a  bundle  of  more  or  less  extrao^dina^y  episodes  woven 
into  a  story  in  the  most  beguiling  manner." — NEW  YORK  Tribune,  April,  1900. 

"  It  is  a  good,  lively,  melodramatic  story  of  love  and  adventure  .  .  .  it  is 
safe  to  say  that  nobody  who  reads  the  lively  episode  in  the  first  chapter  will 
leave  the  book  unfinished,  because  there  is  not  a  moment's  break  in  the  swift 
and  dramatic  narrative  until  the  last  page.  .  .  .  The  dramatic  sequence  is 
nearly  faultless."— Tribune,  Chicago. 

"  Sophia,  with  her  mistakes,  her  adventures,  and  her  final  surrender;  Sophia 
moving  among  the  eighteenth  century  world  of  fashion  at  Vauxhall ;  Sophia  fly- 
ing through  the  country  roads,  pursued  by  an  adventurer,  and  Sophia  captured 
by  her  husband,  transport  one  so  far  from  this  work-a-day  life  that  the  reader 
comes  back  surprised  to  find  that  this  prosaic  world  is  still  liere  after  that  too- 
brief  excursion  into  the  realm  of  fancy." 

—New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"The  gem  of  the  book  is  its  description  of  the  long  co^ch-ride  made  by 
Sophia  to  Sir  Hervey's  home  in  Susse.x,  the  attempt  made  by  highwaymen  to 
rob  her,  and  her  adventures  at  the  paved  ford  and  in  the  hous*  made  silent  by 
smallpox,  where  she  took  refuge.  Tnis  section  of  the  story  is  Almost  as  breath- 
less as  Smollett.  ...  In  the  general  firmness  of  touch,  and  sureness  of 
historic  portrayal,  the  book  deserves  high  praise."— BUFFALO  EXPRESS. 

"  '  Sophia '  contains,  in  its  earlier  part,  a  series  of  incidents  that  is,  we  believe, 
the  most  ingenious  yet  planned  by  its  author.  .  .  .  The  adventure  develops 
and  grows,  the  tension  increases  with  each  page,  to  such  an  extent  that  the 
hackneyed  adjective,  'breathless,'  finds  an  appropriate  place." 

—New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

" '  Sophia,'  his  latest,  is  also  one  of  his  best.  A  delightful  spint  of  adventure 
hangs  about  the  story ;  something  interesting  happens  in  every  chapter.  The 
admirable  ease  of  style,  the  smooth  and  natural  dialogue,  the  perfect  adjust- 
ment of  events  and  sequences  conceal  all  the  usual  obtiusive  mechanism,  and 
bold  the  curiosity  of  the  reader  throughout  the  development  of  an  excellent  plot 
and  genuine  people."— Public  Ledger,  Philadelphia,  Fa. 

"Those  who  read  Mr.  Stanley  J.  Weyman's  'Castle  Inn'  with  delight,  will 
find  in  his  '  Sophia  '  an  equally  brilliant  performance,  in  which  they  are  intro- 
duced to  another  part  of  the  Georgian  era.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman  knows  the 
eighteenth  century  from  top  to  bottom,  and  could  any  time  be  more  suitable 
fo\- the  writer  of  romance  ?  .  .  .  There  is  only  one  way  to  define  the  subtle 
charm  and  distinction  of  this  book,  and  that  is  to  say  that  it  deserves  a  place  on 
the  book-shelf  beside  those  dainty  volumes  in  which  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  has  em- 
balmed the  very  spirit  of  the  period  of  the  hoop  and  the  patch,  the  coffee-house, 
and  the  sedan  chair.  And  could  Mr.  Stanley  Weyman  ask  for  better  company 
for  his  books  than  that  ?"— Evening  Sun,  New  York. 

"  Contains  what  is  probably  the  most  ingenious  and  exciting  situation  even 
he  has  ever  invented."— Book  Buyer,  New  York. 


LONGMANS,  GEEEN.  &  00.,  91-93  riPTH  AYE.,  NEW  TOKK. 


STELLA  FREGELIUS 

A  Tale  of  Two  Destinies 
By   H.   RIDER   HAGGARD 

AUTHOR   OF    "KING   SOLOMON'S   MINES,"   "SHE,"   ETC. 

Crown  8vo,  $1.50 


n  while  Stella   Fregelius  is  a  wide  departure  in  style  it  is  one  of 

the  most  interesting  books  Mr.  Haggard  has  ever  given  us  .  .  .  the 
struggles  of  the  young  inventor  to  perfect  the  aerophone  are  only  incidental  to  a 
story  of  remarkable  psychological  force.  Queer  it  may  be  called  in  a  sense, 
but  certainly  this  is  one  of  the  most  absorbing  narratives  that  Mr.  Haggard  has 
ever  written.    .    .    ."—Chronicle-Telegkaph,  Pittsburgh. 

"...  The  story  is  full  of  the  charm  of  expression  that  made  Haggard 
so  popular.  It  is  full  of  human  interest  throughout.  There  is  nothing  dull 
about  the  story,  and  the  whole  world  of  literature  will  read  it  with  interest  and 
be  entertained  by  it."— The  Worcester  Spy. 

"...  It  is,  in  fact,  radically  different  in  scheme  and  treatment  from 
Mr.  Haggard's  previous  stories,  but  for  all  that  it  bears  the  stamp  of  his  genius 
and  will  prove  fascinating  to  all  readers.  It  is  called  a  '  tale  of  three  destinies,' 
and  is  at  once  mystical,  philosophical,  and  full  of  '  human  interest.'  There  are 
touches  of  humor,  also,  and  altogether  the  story  is  worthy  of  Mr.  Haggard." 
—Democrat  and  Chronicle,    Rochester. 

"...  The  story  is  of  absorbing  interest.  Like  m.ost  of  this  author's 
novels  the  style  is  brilliant,  easy,  and  clear.  The  narrative  will  of  necessity  be 
followed  with  breathless  interest  from  beginning  to  end.  The  plot  is  well  con- 
structed. Mr.  Haggard  controls  the  evolution  of  the  story  with  the  true  art  that 
leaves  an  impression  of  absolute  naturalness." — Nkvv  York  American. 

"...  To  give  even  the  complete  outlines  of  his  new  story  .  .  . 
would  require  many  columns  for  the  simple  catalogue  of  the  varied  experiences 
of  the  splendidly  portrayed  characters.  The  story  is  of  absorbing  interest, 
like  most  of  this  author's  novels,  the  style  is  easy,  brilliant,  and  clear." 

—Mail,  Halifax,  N.  S.,  Can. 

"  The  main  idea  of  this  new  story  hj'  one  of  the  most  daring  inventors  of  the 
modern  tale  of  adventure  is  a  novel  one,  the  enlistment  of  the  services  of  science 
in  the  search  for  a  knowledge  of  the  hereafter,  the  employment  of  an  instrument 
for  the  transmission  of  one  of  the  earthly  senses  in  the  opening  up  of  communi- 
cation with  the  spirit  world  .  .  .  the  invention  which  serves  him  in  these 
pages  is  that  of  a  wireless  telephone,  which  is  to  call  back  the  departed  across 
the  chasm.  .  .  .  Mr.  Haggard  has  written  a  story  that  is  much  of  a  nov- 
elty from  him,  and,  truth  to  tell,  it  is  far  more  interesting  than  would  be  another 
tale  of  Jerusalem  or  South  African  wonders  from  his  pen." 

— Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


PEARL-MAIDEN 

A  Tale  of  the  Fall  of  Jerusalem 
By  H.   RIDER  HAGGARD 


With  26  Full-page  Illustrations  by  Byam  Shaw 
Crown,  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.50 


"...  The  story  is  of  absorbing  interest.  It  is  very  seldom 
that  one  runs  across  an  historical  novel,  the  plot  of  which  is  so  ably 
sustained.  Something  interesting  happens  in  every  chapter.  There 
are  some  delightful  love  passages,  for  no  novel  can  be  considered 
perfect  without  a  little  of  that.  The  story  has  zest  and  is  full  of 
adventure.  The  style  is  brilliant,  easy  and  clear.  The  narrative 
will  be  followed  with  breathless  interest.  The  book  is  beautifully 
printed,  handsomely  bound,  and  profusely  illustrated.     .     .     ." 

— Eau  Claire  Leader,  Wis. 

"...  It  is  one  of  the  best  books  that  Mr.  Haggard  has 
written  for  several  years.  ...  It  contains  two  or  three  scenes 
of  uncommon  strength;  the  arena  scene,  with  the  Christian  martyrs, 
in  the  opening  pages,  the  sale  of  Roman  slave  girls,  near  the  close. 
It  is  not  a  book  which  can  be  read  through  in  a  brief  half  hour  or 
two,  and  it  does  not  permit  the  attention  to  wander.  Altogether  it 
is  a  book  which  deserves  a  wider  notice." 

— Commercial  Advertiser,  New  York. 

"...  there  is  vigor,  charm,  and  doubtless  historical  value 
in  the  pictures  which  Mr.  Haggard  draws  of  dramatic  events  and 
splendid  pageants  that  will  never  lose  interest  and  significance  to  a 
world  yet  shaken  by  their  influence." — Outlook,  New  York. 

"  .  .  .  'Pearl  Maiden'  must  be  ranked  among  his  best 
books.  It  is  full  of  adventure,  of  terrible  dangers  met  on  the  battle- 
field and  elsewhere  ...  is  from  beginning  to  end  absorbing. 
Never  has  Mr.  Haggard  been  more  inventive  or  more  skilful.  His 
plot  is  well  constructed,  and  he  controls  the  evolution  of  the  story 
with  the  art  that  leaves  an  impression  of  absolute  naturalness.  We 
must  add  a  good  word  for  the  numerous  illustrations  by  Mr.  Byam 
Shaw.  They  are  cleverly  drawn  with  the  pen,  but  they  are  even 
more  to  be  praised  for  the  freshness  and  variety  with  which  they 
have  been  designed." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  .  .  .  '  Pearl  Maiden  '  is  a  more  convincing  story  than  any 
he  has  written  about  imaginary  kingdoms  .  .  .  there  is  no 
reason  why  it  should  not  rival  the  popularity  of  'She'  and  'King 
Solomon's  Mines,'  and  in  any  event  it  will  be  sure  to  find  many  fas- 
cinated readers.  ...  It  is  the  best  story  Mr.  Haggard  has 
written  in  recent  years." — Republican,  Springfield,  Mass. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO..    91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,    NEW  YORK 


KARL   OF   ERBACH 

A  Tale  of  Lichtenstein  and  Solgau 
By  H.  C.  BAILEY 


Crown,  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.50 


"  This  is  a  capital  story  of  old  Lichenstein  and  Solgau,  .  .  . 
It  is  a  vivid,  pleasing  romance,  full  of  the  aroma  of  German  legend 
and  war." — Chronicle-Telegraph,  Pittsburg. 

•  «  .  .  ,  The  story  is  well  told,  and  is  one  of  the  best  of 
recent  historical  novels." — Republican,  Springfield,  Mass. 

"  There  is  something  rare  and  preciously  refreshing  in  these 
days  in  a  hero  of  historical  romance  who  is  not  '  spilin'  for  a  fight,' 
and  we  encounter  just  such  a  hero  in  '  Karl  of  Erbach.'  .  .  .  Some 
notable  historic  figures  move  across  its  pages,  and  the  spirited 
action  carries  with  it  a  suggestion  of  the  making  of  history  which 
intensifies  the  novel's  impressiveness.  At  the  same  time,  espe- 
cially in  the  lighter  sentimental  aspect  of  the  story,  and  in  the 
delineation  of  such  characters  as  the  deliglitful  Comte  de  Lormont 
and  the  charming  Lady  Amaryllis,  the  author  reveals  a  delicacy  of 
touch  which  insures  pleasing  results  for  the  reader's  satisfac- 
tion.    .     .    .     " — Republic,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 

"...  a  rattling  tale  of  love  and  war,  of  a  stronger  fibre 
and  with  characters  more  natural  and  human  than  can  be  said 
of  most  tales  of  its  kind.  .  .  .  But  '  Karl  of  Erbach  '  is  very  good; 
the  action  is  spirited." — New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  The  story  is  admirably  well  constructed,  free  from  extraneous 
matter  and  moving  swiftly.  The  succession  of  incidents  is  rapid. 
Mr.  Bailey's  men  are  dashing  and  brave,  and  his  women  are  charm- 
ing and  captivating.     What  more  could  anyone  want  in  a  romance? 

— Philadelphia  Press. 

"  How  Karl  of  Erbach  saves  Solgau  and  restores  the  country  to 
peace  and  plenty,  and  how  he  wins  and  marries  the  Lady  Yoland  is 
the  matter  of  the  tale.  Mr.  Bailey  has  style,  dramatic  instinct,  and 
delicate  feeling,  and  these  combine  to  make  his  book  distinctive  and 
of  far  more  than  average  interest." — Public  Opinion,  New  York. 

"  Mr.  Bailey  has  given  us  an  admirable  story  of  life  in  the 
provinces  of  Lichtenstein  and   Solgau,  during  the  Thirty  Years' 

War The  story  abounds  in  action  that  stirs  the  blood 

to  healthy  circulation.     It  is  well  planned,  well  written  and  will  be 
well  received." — Cleveland  World. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO..  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK 


THE  LORD  PROTECTOR 

A  STORY 
By  S.  LEVETT  YEATS 

AUTKOB  or  '    THE  CHEVALIER   d'AURIAC,"  "  THE  HEART   OF  DKNISF,  "  ETC. 


With  Frontispiece,    Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $  1 .50 


In  this  story  the  author  has  taken  a  new  departure  and  has  portrayed  as  his 
central  character  one  of  the  most  striking  figures  in  English  history.  The  picture 
of  Cromwell  differs  somewhat  from  the  ordinarily  accepted  estimate  of  the  Pro- 
tector, and  is  an  interesting  one  from  that  point  of  view.  Other  great  figures  of 
the  time  are  necessarily  brought  into  the  story,  which  has  its  love  interest  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  heiress  of  Coombe  Royal. 

"  .  ,  .  This  is  an  interesting  tale  .  .  .  dramatic  and  even  tragic,  but 
there  are  some  humorous  touches  here  and  there,  and  the  tone  throughout  is 
rendered  the  more  attractive  through  the  author's  skill  in  handling  the  sylvan 
charms  of  the  countryside  in  Old  England." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  A  really  good  story  of  love  and  adventure  in  the  days  ol  the  Cavalier  and 
Roundheads.  .  .  .  There  is  dash,  spirit  and  charm  in  the  story  that  makes 
it  thoroughly  readable."-CHRONlCLE-TELEGKAPH,  PITTSBURG. 

"  An  excellent  story    .    .    ."— Commercial,  BUFFALO. 

" .  .  .  Is  an  exceedingly  interesting  romance.  .  .  .  The  story  is  well 
told,  contains  sufficient  of  romance,  adventure  and  daring  to  hold  the  keenest 
interest  throughout.  The  book  deserves  a  promment  place  in  the  estimation  of 
lovers  of  historic  romance."— Daily  World,  Cleveland. 

" .  .  ,  It  is  an  interesting  story  from  first  page  to  last,  moreover  a 
wholesome  one  which  no  one  need  hesitate  to  recommend." 

—Herald,  Oneonta,  N.  Y. 

".  .  .  The  book  is  well  worth  reading  and  holds  the  interest  of  the 
reader  from  beginning  to  end     .     .     ."—American,  Baltimore. 

"  .  .  .  There  is  action  on  every  page  of  the  book  ;  love,  fighting,  and  some 
very  good  humor.  The  author  has  a  most  pleasant  style,  and  wastes  no  words 
in  the  telling  of  his  story,  which  will  interest  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and 
women.    It  is  a  book  full  of  enjoyment."— Nashville  American. 

"  There  is  the  same  vividness  of  conception  and  interesting  historical  detail 
that  have  marked  the  earlier  work  of  this  author."— THE  Dial,  Chicago. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  Y^ORK 


THE   CHEVALIER  D'AURIAC. 

A  ROMANCE. 
By    S.    LEVETT   YEATS. 

AUTHOR   OF    "the   honour  OF   SAVELLI,"    ETC.,    BTC. 


1  2mo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.25. 


*'  The  story  h  full  of  action,  it  is  alive  from  cover  to  cover,  and  is  so  compact  with  tbrilt- 
ing  adventure  that  there  is  no  room  for  a  dull  page.  The  chevalier  tells  his  own  story,  but 
he  is  the  most  charming  of  egoists.  He  wins  our  sympathies  from  the  outset  by  his  boyish 
naivete,  his  downright  manhness  and  bravery.  .  .  .  Not  only  has  Mr.  Yeats  written  an 
excellent  tale  of  adventure,  but  he  has  shown  a  close  study  of  character  which  does  not  bor- 
row merely  from  the  trappings  of  historical  actors,  but  which  denotes  a  keen  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  and  a  shrewd  insight  into  the  workings  of  human  motives.  .  .  .  The 
fashion  of  the  period  is  kept  well  in  mind,  the  style  of  writing  has  just  that  touch  of  old- 
fashioned  formaUty  which  serves  to  veil  the  past  from  the  present,  and  to  throw  the  lights 
and  shadows  into  a  harmony  of  tone.  .  .  .  The  work  has  literary  quality  of  a  genuine 
sort  in  it,  which  raises  it  above  a  numerous  host  of  its  fellows  in  kind.  ' 

— Bookman,  New  York. 

"...  A  story  of  Huguenot  days,  brim  full  of  action  that  takes  shape  in  plots,  sud- 
den surprises,  fierce  encounters,  and  cunning  intrigues.  The  author  is  so  saturated  with  the 
times  of  which  he  writes  that  the  story  is  realism  itself.  .  .  .  The  story  is  brilliant  and 
thrilling,  and  whoever  sits  down  to  give  it  attention  will  reach  the  last  page  with  regret." 

— Globe,  Boston. 

"...  A  tale  of  more  than  usual  interest  and  of  genuine  literary  merit.  .  .  . 
The  characters  and  scenes  in  a  sense  seem  far  removed,  yet  they  Hve  in  our  hearts  and  seem 
contemporaneous  through  the  skill  and  philosophic  treatment  of  the  author.  Those  men  and 
women  seem  akin  to  us;  they  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  are  impelled  by  human  motives  as  we 
are.     One  cannot  follow  the  fortunes  of  this  hero  without  feeling  refreshed  and  benefited." 

— Globe-Democrat,  St.  Louis. 

"  A  book  that  may  be  recommended  to  all  those  who  appreciate  a  good,  hearty,  rollicking 
story  of  adventure,  with  lots  of  fierce  fighting  and  a  proper  proportion  of  love-making.  .  .  „ 
There  is  in  his  novel  no  more  history  than  is  necessary,  and  no  tedious  detail ;  it  is  a  story 
inspired  by,  but  not  slavishly  following,  history.  .  .  .  The  book  is  full  of  incident,  and 
from  the  first  chapter  to  the  last  the  action  never  flags.  ...  In  the  Chevalier  the  author 
has  conceived  a  sympathetic  character,  for  d' Auriac  is  more  human  and  less  of  a  puppet  than 
most  heroes  of  histoncal  novels,  and  consequently  there  are  few  readers  who  will  not  find  en- 
joyment in  the  story  of  his  thrilling  adventures.  .  .  .  This  book  should  be  read  by  all 
who  love  a  good  story  of  adventures.     There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  it." — New  York  Sun, 

"A  capital  story  of  the  Dumas- Weyman  order.  .  .  .  The  first  chapters  bring  one 
right  into  the  thick  of  the  story,  and  from  thence  on  the  interest  is  unflagging.  The  Cheva- 
lier  himself  is  an  admirably  studied  character,  whose  straightforwardness  and  simplicity, 
bravery,  and  impulsive  and  reckless  chivalry,  win  the  reader's  sympathy.  D'Auriac  has 
something  of  the  intense  vitaUty  of  Dumas's  heross,  and  the  delightful  improbabilities  through 
which  he  passes  so  invincibly  have  a  certain  human  quality  which  renders  them  akin  to  our 
day.     Mr.  Levett  Yeats  has  done  better  in  this  book  than  in  anything  else  he  has  written." 

— Picayune,  New  Orleans. 

"The  interest  in  the  story  does  not  lag  for  an  instant;  all  is  life  and  action.  The  pict- 
uresque historical  setting  is  admirably  painted,  and  the  characters  are  skilfully  drawn,  espe- 
cially that  of  the  king,  a  true  monarch,  a  brave  soldier,  and  a  gentleman.  The  Chevalier  is 
the  typical  hero  of  romance,  fearing  nothing  save  a  stain  on  his  honor,  and  with  such  a  hero 
there  can  not  but  be  vigor  and  excitement  in  every  page  of  the  story." 

— Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

"  As  a  story  of  adventure,  pure  and  simple,  after  the  type  originally  seen  in  Dumas't 
'Three  Musketeers,'  the  book  is  well  worthy  of  high  praise.   — Outlook,  New  York. 

"  We  find  all  the  fascination  of  mediaeval  France,  which  have  made  Mr.  Weyman's  stories 
such  general  favorites.  .  .  .  We  do  not  see  how  any  intelligent  reader  can  take  it  up 
without  keen  enjoyment" — Living  Church,  Chicago. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00.,  91-93  FIPTH  AVE.,  NEW  YOEK> 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


10 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


'rk 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  368  954    4 


